


Things We're Forced To Name

by brilliantlyordinary



Series: Things We're Forced to Name [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (hell yeah) - Freeform, Abusive Father, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale is chubby fight me, Body Worship, Body insecurity, Coming In Pants, Consensual Underage Sex, Dry Humping, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Like they're over the age of consent but still technically minors, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Motorcycles, Pining, Rimming, Slow Burn, Star Gazing (Bitch), Suggestion of Suicidal Tendencies, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, aziraphale is too good too pure, but they really struggle to get there, crowley probably need professional help lets be real here, did i mention the pining, flagrant abuse of italics, incredibly terrible choices all around, listen if im going to hell im taking you all with me, properly timed confessions are absolutely necessary, self destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-08-11 11:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantlyordinary/pseuds/brilliantlyordinary
Summary: Crowley's a rebel, Aziraphale is a new kid, a goody-two-shoes, and Crowley can't stop thinking about him.aka the American High School AU that literally nobody asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags yall
> 
> Thank you @sweetest-garlic and Ceili, for tolerating me. Also Kit (tofightadragon), love ya.

**“Anthony J. Crowley, you are hereby sentenced to six weeks community service for your misconduct, the serving of which is to be determined at the discretion of the Board of Administrators. Dismissed.”**

Six weeks community service. Not all that bad, considering he had fully intended to burn the school’s entire administrative center to the ground, had skipped class to complete his plan (not that he went all that often anyway), and had been caught chain smoking cigarettes in the girl’s bathroom afterwards. Not bad at all. 

And he actually had to complete the service this time, or he would be shipped off to military school by the System, capital-S, functionally an orphan of the state since his mother had left with his baby sister, his only contact with her the checks she still occasionally sent. His father left him mostly well-enough alone, disappearing for long stretches at a time only to stumble through the door after one of his benders to sleep it off. Crowley tried to stay out of the house whenever his father was home. It was safer that way, less risk of saying the wrong thing and getting a heavy fist to the face for it. The older he got, the better he got at navigating those mine-field conversations with his father, and he prided himself on this ability, this skill in smooth-talking anyone. Or, nearly anyone, anyway.

They lived in a cramped, three-room house that had begun to slouch into the earth the way old and unkempt buildings are wont to do. The outside walls used to be white, but they were caked in enough grime to appear more of a vaguely-grey brown now. The house was preceded by a concrete porch, white, rusted bars like shards of bone jutting out into a railing and columns, doing nothing to make the structure more inviting. 

He had tried so hard to fill it with  _ something _ , growing a veritable forest in the shabby little home he ostensibly shared with his father, surrounding himself with life to beat back the heavy feeling of death that seemed to crowd his every step, a shadow he couldn’t get out from under. 

Crowley was widely known in school— in town even— as a trouble-maker. A bit rough around the edges, bad home-life—  _ you know the type _ — gossiped the neighbors, eyeing him sharply as he ripped around on his motorcycle, ignoring all traffic laws and generally causing as much disturbance as possible. He would show up to class stinking of whiskey, or that sour, sharp mixture of marijuana and tobacco, if he bothered showing up at all. All the teachers hated him, and that was exactly how he wanted it. 

Fucking perfect town in fucking perfect fucking middle America.  _ How much worse could it get? _ Crowley didn’t want to consider it. So he drank, and he smoked, and he drove as fast as he could, chasing the racing of his pulse that reminded him  _ You’re alive you’re alive you’re alive _ . He knew he was more of the live-fast-die-young type. So, might as well live as fast as possible, right? It was fine. As long as he thought about it as little as possible, it would be fine.

Nothing else could touch him. 

There was a new kid at school, a city kid, rich as sin, and everyone was talking about it. Crowley, of course, didn’t care one whit about some shiny-faced newbie, shoes polished within an inch of their lives and tie done up tight, collar crisp and hair unsuccessfully plastered down, with an overwhelming masculine scent that didn’t fit his soft, round face, his pudgy body wrapped in so many layers you couldn’t even be sure how much of his padding was clothing and how much was flesh. He was shockingly…  _ nice _ , to  _ everyone _ . It was  _ disturbing _ . No one was that nice, that naive and disgustingly  _ friendly _ . Clearly he was hiding something, Crowley reasoned. There was no other possible explanation. 

Crowley didn’t talk to him, the first few days of school, when summer hadn’t quite let go yet, the air thick as molasses and just as sweet. He saw him, bustling around between his classes, books clutched tight to his chest and cheeks flushed with the stifling heat. But he never even took off his jacket.  _ Something to hide _ , Crowley reminded himself, idly leaning against a wall plastered with posters exclaiming “Knowledge is Power!” “Run for Student Assembly!” and sign-ups for the fall play,  _ Hamlet _ ,  _ again _ . He watched as the new kid weaved his way through the halls, murmuring polite “excuse me!”s and “oh, so sorry, pardon me”s like someone’s Nan. Crowley itched for a cigarette. 

What  _ was _ it about him? Crowley didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop watching him. He was so friendly, his good intentions almost seemed to leak out of him, beaming out of his face, especially when he smiled. That bright, white-toothed smile. Crowley wanted to bloody it, crack those teeth against his knuckles until this  _ feeling _ that itched under his skin dissipated. He knew it wouldn’t help though. Nothing helped. He  _ wanted _ , with a strange intensity he didn’t know what to do with, wanted to muss that hair, release the curls that the humidity tugged one by one from the case of his pungent hair gel, tear off a few layers, stain those white, white slacks with motor oil, with grass, with sin. Anything. 

He went home, accelerating around each bend, leaning just far enough to feel the knife-edge of a possibility of crashing, the hem of his jeans nearly brushing the asphalt as he tore around corners, trying to drive out of the feeling in his head. 

He pushed open the front door of his house, leaning over the threshold, listening intently for any hint of his father, snoring away or slamming around the kitchenette. Nothing. He was safe. 

He flicked off his sunglasses and wandered around the living room with the fold-out couch he slept on, watering the plants that lined the four walls and covered every horizontal surface. No photos, no trinkets, just verdant green things. He flopped down onto the creaking old couch when he had finished his rounds, idly plucking at the stuffing that spilled from the far left corner of the seat cushion. He closed his eyes, leaning back, gangly legs thrown recklessly out in front of himself, and considered what he should do with the hours he had before the fucking community service. A nap would probably do him good.

\--- --- ---

Of-fucking- _ course _ this new kid was doing community service after school, and for a moment Crowley was intruiged, trying to figure out what this cream-puff rich kid could have possibly done to be sentenced to community service. But it turned out he just  _ liked _ it. He was there completely of his own volition, looking  _ excited _ about the prospect of picking up garbage for an hour after school every day, or scrubbing pots in the back of the kitchen, a fucking angelic fucking smile on his face. 

“Hello!” he waved, smiling brightly at Crowley as he slunk into the room, hands in his pockets and sunglasses firmly on. “I don’t think we’ve met… I’m Aziraphale. I know, strange name, religious parents and all.”

Crowley said nothing, staring at him considerately behind dark lenses for just a beat too long, hoping for a reaction of discomfort from the tightly-buttoned boy in front of him. He didn’t get one, just the same placid smile. 

“Crowley,” he drawled, offering a black-nailed hand to shake. It was a mistake. The kid, Aziraphale, grabbed it firmly in his own little pudgy thing, shaking it in a smooth, practiced, polite motion, holding just a second after the shake before releasing. Crowley was light-headed. Stupid. His palms were so soft, so far from the rough scratch of calluses Crowley knew his own hands carried. Stupid. 

“All right boys, we’re not here to socialize, let’s get to work.”

\--- --- ---

Aziraphale didn’t ask him about his glasses until the third day. 

“So, the, um, shades?” he hedged, not looking at Crowley. Which was sensible, considering that they were both trying to collect as much trash as possible before leaning over to scoop it all up, and there was quite a bit of it, considering fucking high schoolers couldn’t give less of a shit about where they threw their garbage.

Crowley didn’t answer. What could he say, that eye contact made him uncomfortable? Too real. That it helped with hangovers, or hiding eyes bloodshot and heavy with a high? True, but he didn’t want to scare this particular innocent away. At least not just yet.

“Looks cool,” he quipped. 

“Do you really wear them all the time?”

Crowley didn’t answer, but out of the corner of his eye he could just see the blond pause for a moment, waiting for a response, before nodding his head, so easily accepting that none was forthcoming. Warmth bloomed in Crowley’s chest. Stupid.

\--- --- ---

And so it went, for two weeks. Crowley strolled into community service a fashionable five minutes late, Aziraphale said hello, and they went ahead with their respective tasks in near silence. This was fine, as far as Crowley was concerned. He did not need any further temptation when it came to Aziraphale, of that he was certain.

But then, Aziraphale made a mistake. A big one. One that shattered into a thousand tiny shards on the hard kitchen floor at his feet. He didn’t move for eight entire seconds, just staring where the huge glass display piece had been in his hands. And then he looked up, at Crowley, with such  _ fear _ in his eyes, though fear of what Crowley couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale was serving a sentence like him or anything, and dropping something could happen to anyone. But he looked desperate, on the verge of tears, and of course, Crowley couldn’t help himself. 

When their warden (well, not really a warden, just the kitchen manager, who was overseeing their work today) came back and demanded, “What’s this?” in her most authoritative voice (which she had been working on for years and thought was pretty good if she did say so herself) after she saw the hastily swept up shards in an otherwise empty trash bin, Crowley immediately spoke up. 

“Yeah, that was my bad. Fucking thing just slipped right out of my hands.” 

She frowned at him, deeply suspicious. 

“That’ll be another week for language and gross neglect, young man.” 

Crowley shrugged.

But when the woman had trundled her way out of the kitchen, Aziraphale had looked at him in such open  _ admiration _ that Crowley couldn’t even bring himself to look directly at him, like he was the sun. Too bright even with the sunglasses. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yeah, well, ‘s fine. Wouldn’t want the goody-two-shoes to get into trouble, would we?” Crowley muttered, keeping his eyes down.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale reached out to touch his arm, to get his attention and convey his honesty, face earnest in a way that made Crowley’s insides twist and his fingers twitch, aching for a cigarette, or the throttle of his bike.

But it was worth it. 

\--- --- ---

Aziraphale didn’t show up the next Thursday. Crowley shrugged it off-- it wasn’t as though the blond was required to be here like he was. He could do as he pleased. But then he missed the next day too, and Crowley didn’t see him around school when he showed up. He told himself his attendance had absolutely nothing to do with trying to locate a certain curly-haired someone. Nothing at all. Couldn’t have  _ too _ many absences, right? Maybe Aziraphale was just sick. Yes, that made the most sense. 

But then on Monday, Aziraphale  _ was _ there, and his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and he wouldn’t look Crowley in the eye. Crowley knew he shouldn’t say anything, knew the polite thing to do would be to pretend he couldn’t see the clear distress on his face. But Crowley was never one for doing the polite thing. 

“So, what’s got you all bent out of shape, then?” Crowley nudged him with an elbow as they stood side-by-side at the industrial sink in the school kitchen, fruitlessly trying to scrub out stains older than they were. 

Aziraphale jerked, and Crowley didn’t know if he was surprised by the nudge or the broken silence. “Er,” a rough, gravelly sound. He cleared his throat, tried again, “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it’s not nothing if  _ I’m _ asking you about it.”

Aziraphale turned to him, eyebrows pinching in what on anyone else’s face would be a scowl, but on him just looked a little confused, and terrifyingly cute.  _ Cute! _ Crowley internally slapped himself.  _ Get a fucking grip, man. _

“I mean you don’t  _ have _ to tell me, but you probably should,” Crowley mused. “After all, who am I gonna tell? I’m probably the lowest-stakes interaction you have on any given day.” 

Aziraphale looked away, down at the industrial-sized pot in his soaped-up hands, biting his lip as his brow relaxed. “I had a… death. In the family.” He sniffed wetly, and his voice cracked sharply as he continued, “my-- my dog, Gloria. She--” but he got no further, as Crowley couldn’t contain his bark of laughter. 

“Your  _ dog?! _ You’re telling me you missed two days of school for your  _ dog? _ Oh, that’s just too rich!” Crowley exclaimed, shoulders shaking as he tried to suppress his guffaws, abruptly going sour in his mouth when he looked back over at Aziraphale, saw tears slipping down his round face, scrunched up as if he was in pain.

“Wait, hey, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Yes you did! I  _ knew  _ I shouldn’t’ve told you! You’re so-- so--  _ mean _ !” Aziraphale clearly struggled with even that weak insult, quickly pulling his hands out of the sudsy water and drying them hastily before angrily wiping the tears off his face. 

“No, listen, hey, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Aziraphale, I didn’t think--”  _ shut the fuck up Crowley, what did you do, what did you fucking do, you fucked this up, you ruined it and now he’ll never speak to you again _ . 

“No! I don’t care! I.. I.. I hate you!” and he was gone, the metal kitchen door swinging behind him. Crowley, elbow deep in suds, was frozen, surprised in the worst way.  _ Well, that didn’t go very well, did it? Like a lead  _ ** _fucking_ ** _ balloon. _

_ \--- --- --- _

The worst part was that he couldn’t stop  _ thinking  _ about it. People had said worse to him before; hell, his own father had said worse to him, and he had said much worse himself, but the interaction with Aziraphale kept echoing around in his head, that soft round face crumpled in grief. 

Maybe he should… do something. Make a gesture of some kind. Show that he was actually sorry. But what could he do? It wasn’t like he was going to go out and get Aziraphale a new dog, he barely even knew him! Why did he  _ care _ so much about that naive idiot anyway? This was stupid, this whole thing was stupid. 

And so he went to the liquor store, the one where they knew him and never bothered with ID, and he drank half a fifth of whiskey out of a paper bag in the parking lot before deciding,  _ fuck it _ , and hopping on his bike, determined to find Aziraphale whether he wanted him to or not. 

How fortunate then, that just as he was pulling out of the lot, a fluff of white blond hair caught his eye.

“Hey! Hey ‘Ziraphale!” he slurred, jumping off his bike, barely remembering to set the kickstand.

The blond head stopped moving, and turned slow and careful, like he was expecting to be hit. Crowley grimaced, and swigged from the bagged bottle he still gripped in his left hand. Fucking stupid.

“Anthony.” Aziraphale greeted, coldly. 

And that hurt, somehow. Aziraphale had never called him that before. Crowley wasn’t even sure how he  _ knew _ Crowley’s Christian name, but he supposed, schools had lots of records, he could have found it easily. Still, there was a  _ reason _ Crowley didn’t go by his first name, the name his parents had slapped him with, a name with countless copies far back in his family tree. He frowned, pushing out his lower lip into a pout. 

“Hey, hey I jus’ wanned to say I w’s  _ sorry _ , iss all. I didn’ mean to-- to hurt y’r  _ feelings _ ,” He gesticulated a bit too much, throwing his arms around his sides as if he wasn’t quite familiar with how to use them.

“Are you… are you  _ drunk _ ?! And you’re  _ driving?! _ Crowley-!” 

And there he was, back to the right name. Maybe he understood, in some way. Or maybe he just forgot himself. 

“No, no, ‘s fine I do it all the time, don’ worry about it, angel.” 

“Angel? What-” Aziraphale was staring at him, eyes wide as dinner plates.

Crowley immediately realized what he had said and fought the urge to vomit. He felt himself flush straight to his ears, and mumbled something about his hair looking like a halo, and how he was always doing  _ good _ things, but when he looked down, something else caught his eye. 

“You already godda new one?” He lurched forward, desperate for some distraction from this conversation. Aziraphale was stiff, pulled back on the soft blue leash in his hand, as if to keep the little corgi away from Crowley and his whiskey breath and grabbing bony fingers. 

“No, y’re right, sorry, I’ll jus-” he gestured vaguely behind him towards his bike.

Aziraphale seemed conflicted, but Crowley was ready to leave this fucking interaction and try to drink until he forgot all about it. He should still have enough whiskey left for it. He swished the bottle in his left hand, to check the volume, accidentally drawing Aziraphale’s attention to it. 

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke softly, as if he wasn’t sure how Crowley might react. 

“Well, I’m th’ King ‘f bad ideas, so.” Crowley punctuated his statement with a swig from the bottle, relishing the dizziness of throwing his head back to swallow and the burn he could feel all the way down his esophagus. 

“Let me at least walk you home?” Aziraphale up at him, eyes soft like Crowley had never seen before. Maybe this was how pity looked on him. Crowley hoped it wasn’t. 

Crowley deliberated, swaying a little from side to side as he thought. It wasn’t that much of a walk, and he could always get his bike tomorrow. But there was a twisting in his gut at the thought of Aziraphale seeing where he lived. He couldn’t forget the blond was a city kid, had more money than God, and Crowley was poorer than poor, and his house looked it. 

“Yeah, alright,” he heard himself saying, though the hand not wrapped around the neck of the bottle clenched into a fist.  _ Control yourself _ . 

They made their way down the cracked sidewalks, Crowley swinging his legs around like his hips weren’t quite in their sockets, and Aziraphale pulling along the new dog, Virtue.  _ Stupid name for a dog _ , thought Crowley, but then again Aziraphale had said his parents were religious freaks. It wasn’t a very long walk, but they had just gotten started, maybe a block away from the parking lot, when Aziraphale suddenly said, “I don’t mind, you know.” 

Crowley frowned, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about, a task made more difficult by the fog of alcohol in his head, which in turn relaxed and terrified him. He was afraid he would say something he shouldn’t. Not something he didn’t mean, but something he meant  _ too much _ . Just barely dusk wasn’t really the best time for confessions, in Crowley’s opinion. 

“Mind wha’?” he prompted, utterly unable to conjure Aziraphale’s meaning. 

“If you… call me that. Angel.” 

“Oh.” Crowley had no idea how to respond to that, felt his heartbeat climbing into his throat as he tried to make sense of the world, which had started to tip concerningly to the left. Aziraphale grabbed his arm, righting him, and he realized that perhaps he had had a touch too much to drink, because the world hadn’t in fact tilted, he had just started to list sideways, a bit. But then, Aziraphale didn’t let go. He held on, one arm wrapped through Crowley’s, one holding the lead for Virtue. What a sight they must have been: gangly, sharp, all-black Crowley and short, soft, beige-and-white Aziraphale, stumbling down the sidewalk arm in arm like a couple of drunkards kicked out of a bar for having a bit too much, led by a tiny corgi.

“Wh’sky?” Crowley offered, bringing his arm around with the neck still clutched tight in his fist.

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale responded politely.  _ Ever a goody two-shoes _ , thought Crowley.  _ What I wouldn’t give to see him give in, live a little _ . But he shrugged, and took another swig. 

Once they reached the corner of Crowley’s street, he quickly disentangled himself, muttering a quick “well, thanks,” and attempting his typical swagger down the street, though he looked more like a strange marionnette than anything else. Halfway to his house, Crowley turned around, finding Aziraphale still standing on the corner, watching him with a soft concerned frown on his face. He threw a halfhearted salute back to him, turned back around, and didn’t look back again, just threw himself into his house and down onto the old couch.  _ God, what the fuck was he  _ ** _doing_ ** _ . _

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The next week was… normal. Really normal. Too normal. Crowley saw Aziraphale from afar as he moved between classes, and they silently did community service in the afternoon. It wasn’t uncomfortable, sitting in silence with Aziraphale. In fact, Crowley found he quite liked it. Aziraphale was soothing, soft spoken, soft tempered, all around soft. He fit against Crowley’s hard edges in a way that made the world seem to back up, a bit. Made him feel less like he was being hunted for every thing he did, less like he was racing through life, careening towards an early and violent death. Crowley didn’t want to look at that too closely. 

\--- --- ---

But that Friday, the fourth week of his now-seven-week sentence, something changed. Crowley had no idea what it was, but there was something  _ different _ . Aziraphale came and  _ found him _ during lunch hour, plopped down next to him with a lunch tray. Crowley was startled.

“How-- how did you find me?” he asked. He was barely even on school property, lounging against a short cement wall behind a shed on the far end of the soccer fields. He liked it here, and came often. He could smoke and no one would bother him. 

Aziraphale didn’t even deign to answer, just crossed his ankles and tucked in to the shitty cafeteria food the school served as if it were fine dining. Crowley was transfixed. 

“Would you like to come over?” Aziraphale suddenly asked, the question so unexpected Crowley felt like he’d been sucker-punched.

“Sure,” He wheezed, covering it up with a drag on the cigarette pinched between his fingers. Aziraphale smiled. 

\--- --- ---

They walked to Aziraphale’s house, after community service, the blond pulling along an ancient-looking bicycle, complete with basket and horn. Crowley kept shooting nervous looks at him, but Aziraphale seemed perfectly calm. Crowley’s heart was racing. 

They stopped in front of a huge, white, looming monstrosity of a building. Aziraphale carefully locked his bike to the black metal fencing that surrounded the property, green lush grass and not a weed in sight. It was almost creepy, how well-kept it was. 

“Here we are,” Aziraphale announced, unnecessarily, pushing the unlocked door open into a wide foyer, complete with the kind of sweeping staircase Crowley had seen in fancy period films and not much else. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious. He shouldn’t touch anything, probably. Wouldn’t want to rub off on all this pristine white-ness. He swallowed nervously. 

“Hello? Mom? Gabriel? Michael? Uriel?” Aziraphale called, voice not quite echoing, but Crowley thought it should’ve. He really wasn’t joking about the religious nuttery. 

“Aziraphale!” A man who looked to be about thirty was standing at the top of the stairs, in a slick grey suit, arms spread and a wide smile on his face that Crowley found weirdly… fake. 

“Hello Gabriel,” Aziraphale smiled thinly, gesturing quickly to Crowley, “this is Crowley, he’s my friend from school.” Crowley nodded in greeting, shoving his hands uncomfortably into his pockets. 

“Great! So glad you’re making friends, Aziraphale.”

“Yep, okay, we’re going to my room, bye!” the blond had ducked his head down, flushed with embarrassment, and pushed Crowley around to the right, walking him through an offshoot of the foyer and avoiding the stairs entirely.

“Have fun, little brother!” Gabriel called after them, an edge of mockery to his tone that made Crowley’s hackles rise. 

“Sorry, about him. He’s, well. You know. Oldest sibling and all that.” Aziraphale was still red, still pushing Crowley along through long hall after long hall. 

“Seemed like a bit of a dick, if you ask me.” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale hid a smile. 

\--- --- ---

After what seemed like half a mile’s walk through the house, they reached a plain, white-painted door. Aziraphale pushed it open and gestured inside. “My room.”

Crowley was stunned. This one room was more than twice the size of his entire house. It looked like Aziraphale lived in one of those old-fashioned libraries. There were books filling the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, even one of those fancy sliding ladders for the higher-up ones. There was a whole set of furniture, couches and little tables and huge ornate armchairs stacked with even more books. 

“You live in the library?” Crowley couldn’t help but tease, stepping carefully inside as though worried he might knock over one of the stacks of books scattered around, some as tall as he was. There was a bed shoved into the far corner, next to a window, gold metal frame, and the softest looking duvet Crowley had ever seen, but he made his way to one of the couches, flopping down onto it in a facsimile of coolness. 

“Well, I do like books quite a lot, and I didn’t want to have to share my room with any of my siblings, so…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely around the room. 

“‘S nice. So… what did you wanna do?” Crowley asked. 

They ended up watching a movie, though Crowley couldn’t have said what it was about if his life depended on it. They had wandered into the fucking home-theatre Aziraphale had, because of course he did, and sat on one of the couches in front of the big screen. And then they stayed there for nearly two hours, in the dark, and Crowley couldn’t control his thoughts. They were right  _ next _ to each other, and sure, they did this all the time during community service, but now they were  _ alone _ . And Aziraphale had  _ invited him here _ . That had to mean something right?  _ Friendship, you dumbass _ , Crowley told himself, but Aziraphale’s hand, placed carefully on the couch between them, whispered at him that maybe it was something else. 

\--- --- ---

After that, Aziraphale started sitting with him. Every day. 

Crowley would smoke cigarettes, and Aziraphale would eat. And they would talk about nothing, for a whole entire blessed hour. And then Aziraphale would go to class, and Crowley would do whatever the fuck he wanted (sometimes even go to class). 

And it was fine. Better than fine. It was  _ good _ . 

And Crowley was so afraid that it would end, that he would fuck it all up and then never get to speak to Aziraphale again. Aziraphale who didn’t mind when he called him angel, who ate absolute garbage food with such care, such  _ relish _ . God, he hated him. But then, no, that wasn’t right at all. Not even close. 

\--- --- ---

Right around the second-to-last week of his community service, Crowley was feeling reckless. He had done the Right Thing so many times because of Aziraphale, going to class sober and even turning in  _ homework _ and he knew they were friends at the very least, and it was high time he made his move, if he was ever going to. 

So after community service, on a Friday night that was unseasonably warm for mid October, he decided  _ fuck it _ , and took the leap.  _ Just don’t think about it _ ,  _ and it’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could--  _ no, probably best not to think about that. 

“Hey angel,” Crowley crooned, pulling up close on his bike, hair slicked back and cigarette tucked behind his ear, just over the arm of sunglasses, “Hop on, lemme take you for a spin.” 

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea...” Aziraphale flushed, an adorable pink high on his cheeks, and kept his hands tight around his school bag. 

“C’mon, Aziraphale, it’s just a little ride. I promise I won’t speed, how’s that? We can even have a picnic, look” he cajoled, holding up a grocery store bag with some bread, two apples, and two bars of chocolate. He also had wine, and a joint stored in his pocket, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know about that yet. 

The soft blond looked left, right, left again, running his fingers nervously over the leather of his bag and looking for all the world as if he was worried about getting caught. By who, Crowley wasn’t sure. 

Eventually though, he nodded, and threw a leg over the bike, tucking himself up behind Crowley and wrapping both arms tight around his middle. He was so  _ soft _ , and  _ warm _ and Crowley really needed to stop thinking about it right this fucking second before he could consider how  _ close _ they were, how he could feel Aziraphale’s breathing against the side of his neck, little puffs of air brushing past the back of his ear.  _ Fuck. _

Crowley resisted the urge to open the throttle, and instead pulled leisurely out of the school lot.

One perk (the only perk, if you asked Crowley) about living in the middle of fucking Nowheresville small town America, was all the secret, wide-open places one could go to cause trouble. And he knew just the one he wanted. 

They rolled to a stop off the side of a road, closer to the edge of town than the center, and Crowley kicked down the stand. Grabbing the grocery bag, he led Aziraphale into the tall wheat field that bordered the road, pushing through the golden stalks until he reached what he was looking for: the six-foot wide clear patch he had flattened down for just this purpose after lunch earlier today. 

“Here we are!” He gestured grandly, tossing down the plastic bag and himself, laying out on the ground and stretching his arms up behind his head, staring at the sky which was just starting to darken. He was reminded of the last time he had been alone with Aziraphale under a darkening sky—their walk to his house, whiskey fuelling him to what he never would have done otherwise.

Crowley’s heart was beating an erratic rhythm against his ribs. He needed to get this right. He patted the ground at his side, and heard Aziraphale consider for a moment, before sitting cross-legged next to him, hands folded primly in his lap. “Is this…?” 

Crowley had no idea what he was going to say, and it seemed Aziraphale had no intention of finishing the question, let it slip away into the stalks of wheat that surrounded them. 

Crowley sat up, pulling the bag over to him and removing the contents one-by-one, laying out the meager spread, and twisting off the cap of the cheapest red wine he could find in the store. He took a swig, and offered the bottle to Aziraphale, who, surprisingly, took it and took a tentative sip. He made a face, and Crowley couldn’t stop his laughter. 

“Don’t like it, angel?” 

Aziraphale grimaced and shook his head.

“That’s alright, more for me.” Crowley said, even as he put the bottle to the side. He passed one of the apples to Aziraphale, and half the bread. 

“Bon appetit.”

They ate in silence for a bit, the sky darkening to a bruise-sweet purple.

Crowley pulled out the joint, lit up. As he exhaled, Aziraphale turned towards him, a confused look on his face.

“That doesn’t smell like a cigarette.”

“That would be because it’s not. Wanna try it?” Crowley offered, having melted back onto the ground, propped on his elbows with his legs stretched out. 

Crowley wasn’t expecting Aziraphale to pluck the joint from between his fingers, taking a determined puff before hacking out a long series of coughs.

Crowley smiled lazily, already feeling the high seep into his brain, softening his thoughts. 

“Mmm, happens to everyone.” He took the joint back, took a lazy drag, exhaling up towards the emerging stars, pulling off his sunglasses to see them better, those tiny little pinpricks of light so very far away. 

To his surprise, the blond reached for the burning bit of paper and herb again, taking a much more careful inhale this time around, and doing his best to stifle the coughing. 

They stayed there, in silence, watching the sky slowly saturate with dark, a tentative spill of blue ink that started in the east and slowly crept across the arc of the sky, as the sun sank past the edge of the horizon and left everything with a soft, almost surreal feeling. Aziraphale started humming something, voice a soft tenor that crawled right up under Crowley’s skin, unfurling in his chest until it filled him completely, until his entire body hummed in tune, like his whole self was harmonizing along with the angelic bastard next to him. They were still passing the joint back and forth, relaxed and each feeling the sluggish rush of their high. 

“Oh! Chocolate!” Crowley remembered, sitting up a bit too fast and laughing at the way the world swirled around as his blood redistributed itself. He rummaged around in the semi-dark for the grocery bag, pulling out one of the bars and hungrily tearing open the wrapper. He took a bite, and then went to pass the bar to Aziraphale, but mis-judged the distance a bit, and ended up whacking him in the chest with his hand.

The blond let out a helpless giggle. And then another. And then he tipped backwards, laughing like he couldn’t control it, and didn’t even want to. Crowley was dizzy with his high and those bright peals of sound. He had thought the humming was magic, but  _ this _ , oh this was something else entirely. It was sweeter than the chocolate still coating his tongue, and he wanted more than anything to taste it. 

So he did.

He leaned over, and pushed the smallest of kisses into Aziraphale’s laughing mouth. He didn’t stop his giggles, but he reached for Crowley’s shirt, clutched him close.

When he had calmed himself, sighing sweetly with a wide wide smile on his face, stars reflected back from those electric blue eyes, he pressed his own chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips. He relaxed back onto the ground, murmuring, “I’ve never done that before.”

Crowley didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid anything he did would ruin the moment, suspended and stuck, happy to wait forever if he had to. 

Aziraphale leaned back up, slowly, slowly, and pressed the softest of kisses to Crowley’s lips. Chaste kinds of kisses. The kinds of kisses first kisses were meant to be. And he kept kissing him again, and again, the coming and going of his mouth morphing slowly into pressing their lips together, moving them like he was whispering a secret into Crowley’s mouth. And Crowley was kissing back, as slowly and softly as he could, so as not to scare him off. 

When Aziraphale had got his fill of kisses, he lay back again, released his vice grip on Crowley’s shirt, the fabric stretched and wrinkled, leaving a map of where his hands had been. He sighed, sounding satisfied, content, and Crowley’s heart was pounding;  _ you’re alive you’re alive you’re alive. _

He lay back too, and Aziraphale reached for his hand, twining their fingers together. His heart was so full he was worried he might cry. It  _ ached _ , ached like the burn of the first cigarette he had ever smoked, ached like skinned knees and bruised knuckles, like a split lip you couldn’t help pushing at with your tongue. The stars above them were beautiful, and Crowley couldn’t resist reaching up with his other hand and pointing, “you see that there? That’s Cassiopeia, and the myth goes that she had a daughter, who she thought was more beautiful than anyone else…” 

\--- --- --- 

Crowley had barely closed the door to the bathroom in his own house behind him before he was tearing at his trousers, gripping his cock with one hand while the other raced up to cover his mouth, tracing the path of Aziraphale’s lips over his own, physically holding back the pathetic whimpering sounds involuntarily slipping out. He worked himself frantically, trousers still clinging to his hips, pushed just enough out of the way for him to get at himself, tugging harshly with a dry hand, and it chafed terribly but he was so goddamn close it didn’t even matter. 

Aziraphale had  _ kissed _ him, and not just once either. 

He bit down on a knuckle as he spilled over his fist, hips kicking forward uselessly and head thumping back into the door. He was so fucked. They hadn’t even done anything more than kissing, and Crowley really thought he was past the age of getting so worked up over nothing more than a few soft presses of lips. He hadn’t even used his tongue, for chrissakes. Pathetic. Just kissing and Crowley could barely keep it in his pants. He looked down at his hand with vague disgust, the viscous pearly fluid sliding casually towards his wrist and offering no advice at all. Fuck. 

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The thing was, they hadn’t  _ talked _ about it. Crowley spent the whole weekend thinking about it, jerked off probably more than was reasonable, and panicked about the possibilities awaiting him on Monday. But when he showed up for lunch, and met Aziraphale by their normal spot past the soccer fields, the blond just tilted his head up, squinting into the sun, and offered a soft smile. 

Crowley was so anxious it felt like his nervous energy was spilling out of him in waves, pushing up against Aziraphale like ripples in a pool around a rock. But, that made sense, he supposed—rocks were only moved by water after years and  _ years _ ; he remembered that much from ninth-grade geology. 

He grunted a non-committal hello and fiddled with a cigarette, not wanting to light it yet, but hoping it might serve to calm his nerves at least a little. He couldn’t help looking at Aziraphale’s mouth as he ate. Soft, pink lips closing around his plastic fork, hiding those straight white teeth, locking away the wet curl of his tongue. Couldn’t help but remember how they felt, imagine how they might feel now. The same? Different? In what way? He wanted to  _ know, _ but the possibility of rejection was too real, too sharp and close in the harshness of the noon-bright sun. 

_ Maybe it was just the weed _ , he reasoned.  _ He probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise _ . Maybe he even regretted it. What if he felt Crowley had forced himself on him? But no, he had kissed him back, initiated, even. Hadn’t he? 

Aziraphale had begun his usual babbling, oblivious to Crowley’s internal struggle as he bemoaned Mr. Harrison’s interpretation of  _ Ethan Frome _ , something about pickles and red decorative dishes? [1] But Crowley was not listening, barely managed to string together three words during the entire lunch hour. At this point it was just  _ embarrassing _ . 

[1] He should have been paying attention, because he would have realized that Aziraphale was very pointedly discussing the only instance of  _ sexual _ symbolism the damn book had to offer. Might have cleared a few things up for him, in terms of Aziraphale’s intentions. 

All too soon, the hour was over, and they still hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t so much as  _ referenced _ their—Crowley forced himself to call it what he so desperately wanted it to be—date. And now Aziraphale had to go to class, and he wasn’t  _ moving _ , he was just staring at Crowley intently, biting his lip. His eyes  _ begged  _ Crowley for something, but he didn’t know what, didn’t want to overstep a boundary. If dusk wasn’t good for confessions, noon was even worse. 

“Er, I’ll uh, see you around, then. I guess.” Crowley cleared his throat, biting back a possibly hysterical nervous laugh. 

“Crowley, I--” Aziraphale was reaching for his sleeve, and Crowley absolutely was not going to deal with this right now. 

He stood up, abruptly, brushing off his jeans and announcing a falsely-cheery, “Bye!” before loping across the empty soccer field in the direction of the school lot. He needed to  _ leave _ , needed to go home and get absolutely  _ fucked up _ . He was so fucking  _ stupid _ , and he couldn’t even deal with the consequences. He just knew that he couldn’t afford to lose Aziraphale. Which was stupid. They were barely friends, he didn’t even really  _ know _ him. And here he had gone and pinned his fucking heart on that stupid, soft, open face, like an absolute  _ idiot _ , and he didn’t even have the balls to admit it. Stupid. 

\--- --- ---

When Crowley got home, nearly vibrating through his skin with tension, he didn’t see the old, beat-up Volvo parked haphazardly on the street in front of his house, couldn’t think about anything but the destructive urge racing through his blood. He needed to break something, to scream or punch or  _ hurt _ . He had stopped at the liquor store on his way, had picked up enough booze to fuel a 4th of July barbeque, and he was determined to drink until he passed out. Hopefully he wouldn’t wake up until next week. 

He slammed the door open, stomping his way inside, throwing the liquor store bag onto the couch and himself right behind it. He had just managed to twist the top off a bottle of cheap, shitty liquor when he heard it. Slow, heavy steps, in the room next door. His blood turned to ice, then near instantly back to fire. Perfect. He could start a fight, like this. 

“‘S that you, Anthony?” his father slurred through the wall between them. Crowley didn’t answer immediately, trying to gauge whether or not his father might come out and face him, give him the opportunity to push his luck. 

Fortunately (or unfortunately, rather, but Crowley was in a mood), his father did exactly that, lumbering into the sitting room, looking grizzled and worn down, bloodshot eyes squinting at him from under heavy, dark brows, thick lips twisted in a permanent grimace on his grey-stubbled face. 

“Who the fuck else would it be?” Crowley muttered, not even trying to hide the bottle in his hand. His father’s eyes tracked to it, a spark of hunger igniting there, before it was eclipsed with irritation. 

“An’ what the fuck’s that you’ve got there, Anthony? Because if ’s what I think it is, you know the rules.” Crowley could feel his face pulling into a smirk, lips curling until he was nearly snarling, baring his teeth at his father, knew he was just making it worse for himself. But he wanted it, deserved it even. 

The first crack of fist against flesh always surprised him, somehow. Red and white spots bloomed in front of his eyes, and he tasted blood, knew his sunglasses were broken. He didn’t care. 

He fought back, scratching and kicking and throwing his own punches, but his father was so much bigger than him, so much stronger, had plenty of practice winning fights. Crowley fought until he didn’t care anymore, until he could feel the pain leaching across his skin, the first bruises already darkening, blood thick and metallic on his tongue. 

Live fast, die faster. Right? 

\--- --- ---

The next day Crowley rolled up to school in his usual style, worn leather jacket, black jeans, black sunglasses, slick hair. But he moved carefully, cautiously, like he had rehearsed all of his movements beforehand and was practicing moving slow, so unlike his usual whip-crack self. 

His sunglasses and jacket hid enough of the damage, his own split knuckles easy to excuse. He was meant to be a trouble-maker, after all, and the only person who might genuinely care, or bother to ask, he was avoiding like the plague. 

\--- --- ---

It worked for two days, better than Crowley had anticipated, to be honest. But, on Thursday Aziraphale cornered him in a hallway between classes and grabbed his wrist harshly, going to pull him somewhere they could talk. Crowley flinched hard and let out a noise, unable to stop himself, and Aziraphale dropped his grip like he had touched a hot coal. 

Crowley dropped his head, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes, which turned out to be a mistake, because his new sunglasses slipped down his swollen nose and revealed the impressive black eye he was currently sporting. Crowley knew immediately when the blond had seen it, stumbling backwards with a gasp of surprise and horror. 

“Crowley! What-- What  _ happened _ ? Are you alright? Who  _ did _ this to you?” Aziraphale was fluttering his hands, flapping them at his sides before twisting them sharply together, fingers white with the strain. 

“Aw, it’s nothing, angel, don’t worry about it.” Crowley still wouldn’t meet his eyes, was tugging on the bottom of his jacket, pulling the fabric taut from shoulder to hip, then switched to fiddling with the zipper, trying desperately to think of a way to get out of this conversation before it went somewhere he couldn’t handle, couldn’t talk his way out of. “You should see the other guy,” he joked weakly, wanting so badly to brush it off as nothing, just another stupid schoolyard fight.

“No! You need to-- you need… have you been looked at? By a doctor or something?” Aziraphale sounded so  _ worried _ , so  _ sad _ for him. It made his chest ache beneath the bruising, made him clench his hands into fists to feel the split skin protest, threatening to open again, to pull apart and drip blood down between his fingers, warm and metallic and red; to let his pain run out into a steady drip-drip-drip onto the shitty linoleum-tiled floor of the hall. But he forced himself to relax his hands, to look at Aziraphale and assure him, “It’s fine, Aziraphale. I said don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” He grit his teeth around the lie, maintaining eye contact. That was important, when you were lying. 

Aziraphale didn’t believe him, he could see it. But he had manners, and there was nothing he could do, so he dropped it. Let Crowley keep his secrets, for just a little longer. It wasn’t as though he was entitled to them. 

\--- --- ---

They still had lunch together, for some reason. Aziraphale still came to him every day, and every day he would sit and talk and Crowley would curl up or stretch out and smoke and sometimes talk back. It was nice. It was normal. It was fine. But it wasn’t  _ enough _ . 

\--- --- ---

Aziraphale had invited him over again, said that his whole family was off on some boating trip for the weekend but he ‘always got too seasick’ and had begged off. Crowley had no idea what to do with himself. It seemed unaccountably rude to show up drunk, or high, like he wanted to, numbed out enough to keep things platonic, maintain their tentative status quo. 

So he showed up sober, flask full of vodka tucked into the waistband of his jeans and another joint in his pocket. He could hope, right? 

Aziraphale’s house was enormous. Crowley was sure he would never stop feeling overwhelmed by that imposing façade, a feeling only intensified by the pristine white entryway, the endless halls full of rooms he might never see. 

But Aziraphale’s room wasn’t like that. His room was a shrine to comforts, made Crowley feel like he had been let into Aziraphale’s personal sanctuary, and his stomach tightened at the thought of that much trust being put into him. 

“Pick your poison?” Crowley held out both hands, one palm cradling the joint, the other balancing the full flask. Aziraphale seemed to consider for a moment, but his eyes were on Crowley’s face, not his hands. 

“Won’t it… smell?” he gestured cautiously towards the joint, and Crowley felt his heart rate pick up.  _ C’mon, you’re better than this, _ he told himself,  _ he probably just hates drinking.  _

He waved towards the only window in the room, the window next to Aziraphale’s bed. “We can smoke out the window, if it makes you feel better?”  _ And then they would be on his  _ ** _bed _ ** _ and and and…  _ he mentally cut himself off. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale nodded agreeably. 

So they kicked off their shoes, crawled onto his bed, shoving aside his cloud of a duvet and kneeling next to the window, carefully passing the joint back and forth, blowing smoke out the window and making sure none of the ash fell on the crisp white sheets. 

They were probably three-quarters of the way through the joint, Crowley’s head spinning pleasantly, before he had an idea. 

“Hey. Hey, Aziraphale. Wanna try something?” They had both slouched from their knees, more lounging against the sill, legs touching shin to shin. 

Aziraphale made a vaguely curious noise, and Crowley smiled. He could feel it was a soft smile, probably disgustingly soppy-looking but he was high, and he didn’t care. 

“You ever heard of shotgunning?” 

The blond shook his head fast, then paused and blinked hard, eyes unfocused. Crowley knew the feeling. Like your brain was liquid, sloshing around, any sharp movement causing waves of not-necessarily-unpleasant disorientation. 

“You gotta… Hmm… I’ll just show you, ‘s harder to explain. You inhale, ok?” Aziraphale nodded, more carefully this time. 

Crowley took a long drag from the joint, holding it in his lungs and gesturing for Aziraphale to lean forward. He looked confused but did as he was bid, and reacted with a gasp to Crowley sealing their mouths together. Which was fortunate, because Crowley could let the sharp inhale pull the smoke between them, out of his lungs and into Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale pulled away first, separating their mouths with a soft sound and staring at Crowley’s mouth as he let the smoke they had shared escape in a thin stream. 

“That was…” he licked his lips, “nice.” 

Crowley laughed, pulling on the joint again; it was nearly finished anyway. He was surprised when Aziraphale grabbed his shirt, pulled him in and sealed their mouths together again, stealing the smoke out of his lungs. 

He was buzzing, felt this high like static in his fingers, across his tongue. Tingly. Delicious. He stubbed out the butt of the joint, flicked it out of the window, and flopped onto his back, sprawling on the end of Aziraphale’s bed. Aziraphale lay down as well, though he grabbed a pillow before stretching out cautiously next to him, moving like he wasn’t exactly sure where his limbs were or where they were going, but he was determined to make it there. It was funny, and Crowley laughed, which made Aziraphale laugh, which just made the whole thing funnier and they shook with laughter until they were utterly out of breath, lying next to each other, heads towards the window and feet hanging off the side of the bed. 

The room was spinning, just a touch too fast for Crowley’s taste. “Might’ve… might’ve overdone it, with that one, there.” His voice sounded shockingly normal, but Aziraphale’s response sounded like it was coming from underwater, “I think… I think the room is spinning.” 

Suddenly, he reached over and grabbed onto Crowley’s arm, giving himself an anchor as his brain swirled the view in front of him into a pulsing, wavy mess. They sat like that, for awhile, just waiting it out. Crowley’s tolerance was higher, of course, but as soon as he consciously noticed that Aziraphale was still gripping his arm, his brain went into overdrive thinking about all the other, different ways they could be touching and simultaneously trying to make his brain shut the fuck up so he could just enjoy it. And then Aziraphale started… petting him? So softly, so carefully, gently pulling his hand up, bringing it down and brushing along his arm, before starting again. 

“You know,” he started, “you are quite soft.” 

Crowley felt all the blood in his body rush to his face, couldn’t make his tongue say a goddamn thing, body completely frozen as Aziraphale stroked along his arm. 

“I think you don’t think you’re very soft. But you are. Soft.” Rambling. Still high, definitely.

After a minute, Crowley’s brain freed up his tongue, and he found himself saying, “Nah, you’re the soft one. You’ve got, you know, soft. Softness. You’re soft.”  _ Fucking great job, Crowley, really explained that so well _ . 

“Soft.” Aziraphale repeated, then giggled. “Soft. Doesn’t sound like a real word anymore, huh? Sooofffttt.” He petted Crowley’s arm again, but instead of lifting off when he reached his wrist, he let his hand slip down into Crowley’s, linking their fingers together like he had done in the field, under the stars. 

“Hey,” Aziraphale sat up, tugged his hand until he sat up too. “Lemme show you something.” He stood, pulling Crowley along with him. They stumbled through the halls, Aziraphale obviously with a destination in mind, Crowley just marveling at the sheer size of his house. He pulled them to a stop in front of a dark, oak door, and pushed it open with just his fingertips, like he was nervous about what might lurk behind it. 

But it was just a… bedroom? A perfectly normal, boring, drab grey bedroom with a drab grey bed and drab grey curtains. It was drab. And grey. 

“Okay….” Crowley said, the question unvoiced but implicit.  _ The fuck? _

“It’s.. this is..  _ Gabriel’s room _ .” Aziraphale leaned close, whispered it like someone might overhear. 

“Huh.” Crowley ran an appraising eye over the plain little room, and his eye caught on a glimmer of metal from the closer nightstand. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand (reluctantly) and swayed casually into the room, though Aziraphale stayed hovering in the doorway. 

The metal bit was a placard. He picked it up, looked at it for half a second before bursting into laughter. 

“He… fucking…. He has a name plate? On his bedside table? Who fucking  _ does _ that? Doesn’t he  _ live _ here?” He turned back to Aziraphale, holding out the placard and waiting for that smile to bloom across his face. 

“He keeps both his diplomas here too.” Aziraphale said, pointing at the framed documents, hanging directly across from the bed, as if Gabriel was making sure they were the last thing he saw before going to sleep. What an ass. No family photos, but he did have a framed headshot, which was just  _ ridiculous _ . Who fucking did that? Giant fucking assholes, that’s who. 

“Bit of a narcissist, is he?” Crowley asked, pointing at the headshot. Aziraphale giggled. Crowley felt like he had gulped too much hot coffee, warmth spreading from his stomach and pulse racing in his throat. 

They wandered around the house, peeking into other rooms, Crowley cracking rude jokes and Aziraphale trying not to laugh. It was  _ fun _ , and Crowley couldn’t think of the last time he had enjoyed himself like this, had felt like there was not a single other place on the goddamn Earth that he would rather be than right here. With Aziraphale. 

\--- --- ---

Nothing else happened that night. Crowley and Aziraphale stayed up late, watched three movies in a row, and then they trekked back to Aziraphale’s room, where Crowley passed out on a soft, plush tartan sofa while the blond readied himself for bed. 

He woke to bright sunlight and Aziraphale patiently waiting, a book in one hand and a cup of coffee at his elbow, still steaming. He yawned, stretched out each of his limbs in turn, and gratefully accepted the hot mug as Aziraphale offered it to him, gulping the beverage down black. 

“I should probably…” He started, motioning towards the door with an elbow. Aziraphale just smiled, and nodded, as if to say, “Whatever you like.” Which was, frankly, rude. Though Crowley supposed he couldn’t have known that Crowley wanted to stay more than anything. He was just being polite. 

So Crowley went home, or at least, left Aziraphale’s, and floated through the rest of the weekend. He mostly stayed away from home, just in case his father was still kicking around, and he drove and drove, feeling the wind tearing at his hair, his clothes, and he felt…  _ alive _ . Felt like he  _ wanted  _ to be that way, too. 

\--- --- ---

  
They were just friends, which was fine. Crowley could accept that. He  _ could _ . And if they happened to kiss sometimes, mostly when they were high, well, sometimes friends just did that. Right? They were always closed-mouth kisses anyway, except if they were shotgunning, which they were rather adept at by Thanksgiving break, so it basically didn’t count as real kissing. It was fine. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting two chapters this week yay!

Crowley didn’t have community service anymore, and there was no way in hell he would be volunteering for it, even if it meant an extra hour with Aziraphale. It was  _ almost _ worth it, but then he thought about scraping week-old mystery casserole out of an unending stack of eternally-stained dishes, and the unpleasant surprise of picking up what one thought was an empty wrapper only to find out it was in fact filled with rotting food. Nope. Not worth it. It wasn’t like he needed an excuse to hang out with Aziraphale anyway. They were friends. Actual, real friends. 

Crowley became a near-constant satellite to Aziraphale’s house, caught in tight orbit with the blond, whose gravity felt stronger than the sun. Crowley privately imagined them as a binary star system, two celestial bodies so close, so intrinsically linked that they became nearly indistinguishable, melting together into a singular source of brightness, throwing out flares and collapsing ever inward, each pass pulling them in closer together, an inexorable draw like water sliding down glass, or like a magnet collecting iron filaments. The unified collecting the dispersed, centering them, orienting them to a steady north. 

Aziraphale had still never been to his house, and honestly Crowley was perfectly content to keep it that way. But then Aziraphale had to go and  _ ask _ him about it, and what was Crowley going to do? Lie to his face? Well. He definitely could have. Probably should have, all things considered, but when Aziraphale had looked at him over lunch, big blue eyes bright in the sun and asked him, so innocently, “How come we never go to your house, Crowley? You’ve been to mine so many times, I want to see where you live.” 

And Crowley knew it wasn’t fair to him, that he was purposely keeping this part of his life hidden, but he didn’t want Aziraphale to  _ see _ that. To see it and know how little Crowley had, how incredibly  _ fucked up _ his family was. To  _ pity  _ him. He wanted to stay like this, just as they were, knowing Aziraphale without Aziraphale knowing him. 

“Aw, you wouldn’t wanna see my house, angel.” He shrugged in feigned nonchalance, “it’s nowhere near as nice as yours.” 

“Oh, but, you know I don’t care about that. I haven’t even seen it up close, ever.” He looked so fucking  _ earnest _ , so  _ sincere _ , and Crowley was so weak for him. 

“Yeah alright, maybe we can go to mine sometime.” Noncommittal agreement, perfect. 

Aziraphale frowned at him, and Crowley momentarily considered regretting how well the blond knew him, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Best laid plans, or whatever. 

“Fine. Next week, then.” Hopefully he could milk that for awhile, until he came up with a better excuse. 

Aziraphale smiled that smug little smile at him, and Crowley resented how his knees went watery and he had to police his expression away from pathetically obvious adoration. It was messy business, being… well. He supposed he had to admit that he was in love with Aziraphale. His best and only friend. It wasn’t much of a revelation, but it was the first time he had used those words for it. Love.  _ Has any other word caused so much suffering? _ What a fucking cliché thought. He must be going soft. He scoffed at himself.  _ Shut the fuck up, sop.  _

What Crowley had not anticipated, unfortunately, was how badly Aziraphale apparently wanted to see his house. He was quite determined. He asked every day, at least twice, and by the following Wednesday, Crowley was fucking  _ over it _ .

“Fine!” He threw his hands up in the air, in defeat and exasperation, “We can fucking go to my house! I don’t know  _ why _ you’re so determined to see my shitty little three-room hovel but  _ whatever _ , Aziraphale.” 

He had the decency to look chagrined, at least. But it did nothing to dim his excitement, and he… well, he  _ wiggled _ with delight. It was almost worth it, just to see that. Almost. 

But that was just his fucking luck, wasn’t it? His dad  _ would _ be home the  _ one time _ he decided to bring someone over. 

He very nearly turned his bike around, senses begging him for the sound of screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber, wanting nothing more than to escape, get away. But Aziraphale was determined to visit, and it was bound to happen eventually. Maybe his dad would be asleep, wouldn’t even notice they were there. 

Crowley steeled himself as they pulled up, shame welling in him as he looked over the house, at its slumped middle, like a worn stair. At the rust and the ugly twists of painted metal, at the raw concrete and ripped screen door. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale’s face, but he had to warn him, he knew. 

“My dad…” he started, stopped. Cleared his throat, tried again, “he’s uh, he’s not, er, a very nice guy.” He swallowed, daring to make eye contact over his sunglasses,  _ willing _ Aziraphale to  _ understand _ , not to ask questions. 

He had a very serious expression on his face, hard in a way Crowley definitely wasn’t used to. He nodded. Crowley’s gut clenched _ . Best get it over with. _

He walked up the porch, Aziraphale trailing close behind him, and opened the door cautiously, sticking his head in and listening for a moment before he pushed the door the rest of the way open, sweeping his arm out as he sarcastically announced, “Home sweet home.” 

Aziraphale gasped, and for a moment Crowley was drowning, his brain screaming at him  _ Now he knows, how pathetic you are, you aren’t worthy of him and he knows it and he’s going to leave and why would he ever want to be friends with you, after seeing how you live. Like an animal, like an impoverished curr. _ Impoverished curr? Aziraphale must be rubbing off on him. 

But Aziraphale’s face was slack with… with… awe? Crowley was immensely confused, until the blond stepped past him, into the room Crowley lived in, and made a beeline for the nearest cluster of potted greenery. 

“Crowley! Are these yours? They’re so lovely! You must take such great care of them, they’re so  _ green _ .” He was petting the broad leaves of a squat little fiddle leaf fig, smiling that beaming, lovely smile. Abruptly, Crowley was jealous. Of his own fucking  _ plants _ .  _ Unbelievable _ . 

Aziraphale was still talking, “I don’t know anything about plants, but these are so lovely. Lovely things.” He was still stroking the leaves. 

“Stop that, you’ll make the other ones jealous.” Crowley was mostly joking, but Aziraphale seemed to take him to heart, and spent the next ten minutes greeting and complimenting every plant in the room. Which was not an insignificant number of plants. Crowley applauded his tenacity. 

When he had finished with the last, tiny succulent, resting next to the thread-bare couch Crowley slept on, he turned with a radiant look on his face. Crowley wanted desperately to kiss him. 

“Well, if I knew you’d like the plants so much, I might have had you over sooner.” Crowley lied, but it was a nice thought, and he thought Aziraphale might appreciate it. 

Which was, of course, exactly the moment Crowley’s father decided to make an appearance. He stumbled out of his room, wearing a robe that had certainly seen better days, and probably not much else. Crowley didn’t care enough to look, and honestly, didn’t want to know. 

His eyes were bleary and glassy, a look Crowley knew well, and dreaded with every fiber of his being at this moment. He very slowly took a step backwards and slightly to the side, putting as much of his own body in between his father and Aziraphale as possible. 

“Oh? Who’s this?” He was squinting over Crowley’s shoulder at Aziraphale, clearly sizing him up. When neither of them moved to respond, his gaze hardened.

“Anthony. Introduce me to your little  _ friend _ .” He attempted a smile, but it came out as a cruel sneer, stained yellow teeth doing nothing to hold back the overwhelming stench of whiskey that rushed from his mouth as he spoke. 

Crowley was wound tight as a spring, held his nervous energy in the curve of his spine, the set of his shoulders. All three of the rooms occupants could feel his anxiety. No, scratch that. All 72 of the room’s occupants could feel it. Crowley could have sworn he saw the foliage closest to him start to shiver, but it was probably just him, shaking. Fear, and anger, and a writhing, twisting, itching feeling. He wanted to run, to hide, to  _ move _ . 

“This is Aziraphale. We know each other from--”

“Azira-what now? What kind of fucking name is that?” 

Crowley couldn’t help his flinch. Aziraphale probably saw it, was probably putting the pieces together, would probably figure it out and then he would  _ pity _ him, and Crowley would never be able to talk to him again.  _ Fuck _ . 

“It’s a religious thing.” Crowley said, silently begging Aziraphale not to say anything. 

His father scoffed derisively. “Religion’s just the… the... What’s the fucking saying?” He paused for a moment, cuffed a hand roughly over his stubbled chin, “Doesn’t matter. Religion’s for idiots.” 

Aziraphale stayed thankfully silent, but Crowley couldn’t risk turning around to see his face. 

“Right, well. We were just leaving, so--” Crowley was fully prepared to bolt, tense as a rabbit, shoulders relaxed but in a forced sort of way, like he was making an effort to keep them unacquainted with his ears. 

“Well don’t let me stop you, Anthony. You and your little friend have fun.” He sneered again, face twisting in an ugly approximation of a parental smile, and made his slow, shuffling way into the kitchenette. 

Crowley still didn’t look at Aziraphale, just walked right back out the front door, hoping the blond would get the hint and follow him. They got back on his bike, and this time Crowley didn’t hold himself back, tearing out into the street. His throat was burning, and there was pressure building up behind his eyes that he was not at all prepared to deal with. 

Aziraphale didn’t say a word, arms wound tight around Crowley, cheek resting on the back of his neck as they sped through the early-evening emptiness. This was usually Crowley’s favorite time of year: fall fully settled, air crisp and sharp, leaves a blur of color. He hated every fucking thing about it, at the moment. 

Crowley pulled up sharply in front of Aziraphale’s house, waited for him to get off the bike. He still couldn’t look at him, couldn’t speak. His hands were gripping the bike’s handles hard enough to hide their shaking, white knuckled with tension. 

“Crowley, I--” Aziraphale started, so quiet, so soft against his shoulder.

“Don’t.” Crowley cut him off, voice hard. Almost hard enough to cover the rough quality to it, the suggestion of cracking that single word carried. 

Aziraphale ignored him. “I’m sorry Crowley, I didn’t know--”

“Well, now you do. So, if you would be so kind.” He released his death grip on the throttle, gesturing up towards Aziraphale’s white monstrosity of a house, a clear dismissal. 

“I really think we should--” Aziraphale still wasn’t moving. 

“If you don’t get off this bike in the next ten seconds--” Crowley didn’t finish the threat. What could he say? He couldn’t guarantee Aziraphale’s safety? That was true but then he would have to admit that he was about to do something dangerous, something irresponsible and stupid. Which was also true, but Aziraphale probably wouldn’t let him go if he said that. He needed to  _ go _ , and go  _ fast _ , fast and reckless and skating just along that sweet razor-sharp edge between living and dying. 

“Just, come inside. Please.” 

For once, Crowley had no problem resisting that gentle, entreating voice.

“No.” 

There was a certain finality to that.

Aziraphale’s arms around him loosened, and he leaned to the side, carefully bringing his leg over the seat until he was standing next to the bike. Crowley could feel his eyes burning into him, could feel his  _ pity _ . 

He yanked on the throttle, the bike lurching forward, zero to sixty miles an hour in just under five seconds, fast enough that when his tears finally spilled over, they tracked nearly parallel to his sunglasses, streaking back into his hair. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a motorcycle crash.

He didn’t know how long he had been driving. He didn’t know where he was. It was dark out, and he didn’t recognize any of the houses flashing past. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, right now. He pushed the bike onward, faster, faster, hurtling along the road until he felt weightless, the short yellow stripes that divided the lanes warping into one long streak, looking nowhere but the horizon, the wind rushing past his ears and drowning out everything. There was a curve in the road ahead, but he didn’t bother decelerating. Either he would make it or he wouldn’t, and he didn’t care either way. 

Road signs flashed as he passed by them, too fast to read, too fast to be anything more than a reflective square of brightness approaching, receding, approaching. The curve had a speed limit attached: 35 mph; Crowley glanced at his speedometer: 80. If he dropped to 65 he could probably still make it.

He leaned into the turn, felt his bike slip, felt the loss of traction underneath the wheels and had time to think  _ I’m an idiot _ before he skidded out of control. His left hip and elbow cracked against the pavement, bike sliding out away from him as his momentum carried him forward, grit catching at his clothes, embedding itself in his skin. He slid for longer than he thought he would, and when he stopped, he lay still. For a minute, three, fifteen, he didn’t know. He wasn’t confused, didn’t think he had hit his head. The stars just looked so beautiful, way out here in the middle of nowhere, and he was reminded of the last time he had looked up at them, lying down on the ground, soft fingers twined with his own. There was no one around, nothing familiar in this stretch of road, and Crowley lay there, crying up at the wide, starry sky, until it occurred to him that perhaps lying down in the road was not the best idea, and he should probably check on his bike. 

He sat up, feeling the stretch and pull of raw skin all along his left side, felt that his elbow was split open, his jeans and shirt shredded from the friction of the road. Not too much blood though. He stood up carefully, limping towards his bike a good twenty yards ahead of him. It was alright. A bit dinged up, sure, the left mirror was hanging by a thread and the paint had been nearly completely stripped from the left side, but it would still ride. He wasn’t stranded. 

He heaved the bike onto its wheels, walked it around to check that nothing had been knocked off kilter, and cautiously got back on, pulling around, going back. Going home. 

\--- --- --- 

His father didn’t ask him about it, probably didn’t even notice the ripped shirt, the scratched-up bike, dried blood stiffening his jeans to cardboard. It was fine, he didn’t want him to. If he was honest with himself, he felt… good. Better than he had all day, in fact. Maybe even better than he had all month. His pulse was thrumming under his skin, the ache of road rash a sharp reminder  _ you’re alive you’re alive you’re alive _ . It hurt, but it was good. 

He took a long, burning shower, carefully washing out as much of the grit as he could. He curled himself onto his right side on his fold-out couch bed, looked around at his plants, felt nothing but the sting of his side and the heavy clouded weight of sleep pulling on him. 

\--- --- ---

He had known there was a possibility that Aziraphale would not show up for their usual lunch routine. He had been rather harsh yesterday, after all. But he wasn’t expecting how much it would  _ hurt _ , how much he found himself wanting to cry again. He felt like he should have cried himself out by this point, and all this outpouring of emotion was not doing wonders for his tough guy persona. But he hurt. His body hurt, his head hurt, his  _ heart _ hurt. Fuck. 

So he waited twenty minutes, until he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t just late, and then he went home, caution he couldn’t quite shake forcing him to drive slow, but at least he wasn’t following traffic laws. That would have been too far. 

His father had fucked off again, leaving Crowley with the house to himself and enough liquor to host a frat party.  _ Well, best get started _ . 

“Cheers.” He lifted a bottle of vodka in mock toast to the empty room, voice bitter and dull. He took a deep pull, gagging as the cheap liquor hit the back of his throat, eyes watering as he coughed, chasing the burn with more. Numb, numb, numb. 

Two hours later, he was hammered. And not in the fun way either, but in the maudlin, slurring way, swaying around the room, yelling at the plants about their shortcomings, and if those shortcomings happened to revolve around an inability to talk about things, to face feelings that plants didn’t actually have, well. That was between him and the plants, wasn’t it. 

The soft, cautious knock at the front door startled him, and he jerked to his feet from where he had melted into the couch, flinging the half-empty vodka bottle across the room and spilling an arc of the astringent smelling liquid on the floor. His stomach dropped to his knees—he was too drunk not to start a fight if his father walked in. But his father wouldn’t have knocked, would he, and certainly not softly. His stomach dropped lower, and he thought it shouldn’t be possible to feel so nauseous with his stomach all the way at his feet. 

He stumbled up to the door, intending to just peek around the edge of it, but instead found himself flinging it open wide. 

“An’ whadda  _ you _ want?” He slurred, aiming for righteous anger and landing more on the side of tired, and bitter, and very, very drunk. 

Aziraphale looked so small, standing there on the porch, shoulders held close, elbows tucked in, looking down; like he was trying to make himself smaller, even more nonthreatening. Crowley hated looking at it. 

The blond cleared his throat, still staring intently at his shoes. “I wanted to… apologize. For, er, well, you know.” 

“Do I?” There was a cruel edge to his voice, and Crowley regretted asking the question immediately. Of course he fucking knew, and he certainly didn’t want to listen to Aziraphale struggling to put it into words, which he would undoubtledly want to sound  _ polite _ . “Nevermind.”

“Is, uh, is he here?” Aziraphale paused, looking around Crowley into the house.

“Nah. Left again.” Crowley shrugged, tried not to wince at Aziraphale visibly relaxing. 

“Can I, um. Can I come in?” Aziraphale looked up at him through his lashes, like he was scared Crowley might say no and didn’t want to face that rejection directly. 

Crowley stepped to the side, gesturing much too broadly for Aziraphale to enter. 

“Thank you.” He carefully stepped inside, and Crowley let the door slam itself shut behind him. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t at lunch today, I… well, I suppose I don’t have much of an excuse really. I was worried you wouldn’t be there, after… after yesterday, and so I… I didn’t go. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about how we left off yesterday, and I just wanted to tell you–” 

Crowley lifted a hand to cut him off, not wanting to hear the rest of his doubtlessly placating sentence. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t let him. “No, let me finish. I wanted to  _ say _ that I didn’t mean to push you like that about going to your house, we can just always go to my house, I don’t care really, and I would never want to make you uncomfortable and you should have just  _ told _ me, I would never hold anything like that against you and I thought you  _ knew _ that, and then I started thinking that maybe I haven’t really been the most forthright with you, and I – ” He ran out of steam and stopped, staring up at Crowley, his brow pinched together in that stupid puppy-dog way he had, biting his lip, and Crowley was not at all fortified against this. “And I just wanted to make sure you knew that I… I care about you. And your well-being.” 

Well, that was fucking unexpected, and he was certainly much too drunk to be dealing with it right now. He was just staring at Aziraphale dumbly, probably looking confused as hell. Aziraphale swallowed, looked back down at his shoes, standing in the middle of the vodka streak Crowley had made throwing the bottle earlier. 

“Hey – ” Crowley’s voice cracked embarrassingly. He tried again, “Of course I.. of course I knew that. Know that.” But had he, really? He had  _ wanted _ to know that, but how could he know he wasn’t just projecting? “And you know I – ” he couldn’t say it, drunk or not, but Aziraphale seemed to understand. 

The blond stuck out a hand, awkwardly. “Friends?”

Crowley cautiously lifted his hand to meet it, a handshake like they hadn’t shared since they had met in community service, just two months feeling like an entire lifetime ago. “Sure.” 

They stood there for a second, staring at each other, caught in a strange bubble of deja vu. Crowley broke it, looking away, towards the couch. “Erm, can I uh, get you anything?”  _ What the fuck? Are you a 50’s housewife? Pull yourself together! _

He tried to counter his words by flopping down onto the left side of the couch, which spit out a chunk of stuffing in protest. “I’ve got… well, whiskey, and vodka, and err some Fireball around here somewhere? Or, maybe just water?” 

Aziraphale carefully sat next to him, hands on his knees, the picture of prim and proper. “I’ve never tried vodka… is it terrible?” He wasn’t  _ virginal _ when it came to alcohol, not by any means, but he definitely didn’t have the vast wealth of experience Crowley did, and tended to defer to him on such matters.

“Pretty terrible, but it def’nitely gets the job done,” Crowley answered vaguely, scanning the room, trying to locate the half-full bottle he had thrown. Ah! There it was, miraculously right-side up, in the pot of the fiddler leaf fig Aziraphale had admired yesterday. He slouched to his feet, spine bent into a sitting position as long as physically possible, snatched up the bottle, and threw himself back down. He offered it to Aziraphale, who took it and sipped. 

Crowley had to laugh at the face he made, but Aziraphale ignored him, brought the bottle back up to his lips and took a deep swallow. 

“Careful, there,” Crowley laughed, “‘S strong stuff.”

Aziraphale wiped his mouth on his sleeve, offering the bottle back to Crowley, who took a sizeable sip of his own, and then handed it back, their fingers brushing and sending a warm surge up his arm, catching around his split elbow and leaving it vaguely aching. 

They sat drinking in companionable enough silence, Aziraphale doing his best to catch up to Crowley’s level of intoxication. They slumped, lower and lower, sliding towards the indented center of the couch and each other, until they were shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Di’jou know,” Crowley found himself saying without his brain’s permission, “that I h’ve a little baby sister somewh’re? Pr’bably doesn’t even know I exs- es- am around.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale rolled his head around, turning his face toward Crowley. “What’s her name?” 

“Dunno. Called her Bee. She w’s jus’ a baby when Mom left.” He realized that might be a little too close to certain sensitive subjects, but Aziraphale just looked at him with such profound empathy, like he really  _ understood _ . 

“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale’s eyes were welling up, and that was absolutely not going to be allowed to happen. 

“No, no don’ be sad, ‘s fine, I don’ even think about them anymore.” The lie was bitter on Crowley’s tongue, but he would’ve said anything to get that sad look off Aziraphale’s face. Anything at all. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk before.” Aziraphale said, through a hiccup. “Feels… funny. Not like weed. I like weed. Makes things feel good. This is more like, like, I’m not driving.” He giggled. “I can’t drive.” 

Crowley looked at him, felt the affection bleeding out of his expression, didn’t care. Aziraphale was sitting there, right next to him, pressed all along his un-bruised side, and it felt  _ right _ . Sandwiched between an ache on one side and longing on the other. Balanced. 

His cheeks were flushed with alcohol, he was still dressed like a tiny lawyer, or an old-timey accountant maybe, and Crowley  _ loved _ him. Loved every fucking part of him, from his stupid curly hair to his always-shiny shoes. The bastard. 

He realized Aziraphale was looking back at him, had no idea how long he’d been staring. Probably too long for friends, but Aziraphale didn’t look upset. No, he looked… he looked nervous. And  _ hungry _ . Crowley felt like an over-full balloon, like he would drift away if he broke eye contact, like Aziraphale was the tether keeping him in orbit. Not holding him down but... anchoring him, keeping him steady. 

Aziraphale moved first, Crowley was absolutely sure of it, but it didn’t matter because suddenly they were kissing, and not like before. These were open-mouthed kisses, hungry and messy and  _ divine _ . He licked into Aziraphale’s mouth, tasted cheap vodka and  _ Aziraphale _ , and suddenly breathing was stupid, Crowley had no idea why he bothered with it. This was so much  _ better _ . 

He twisted, trying to get closer, but was pulled up short, his scraped-up skin protesting the strain. He wanted to ignore it, would have ignored it, if Aziraphale hadn’t chosen that moment to bring his hands up to Crowley’s flanks, and Crowley couldn’t stop himself from lurching away from the contact against his abraded flesh. 

Aziraphale pulled back, deliciously flushed, lips swollen and wet, and Crowley just wanted to go back to kissing him again, but he was looking at him with confused hurt, asking, “Crowley? What’s wrong?” 

“‘S nothing, angel.” He tried to reel Aziraphale back in, but he resisted, frowning at Crowley’s side, pulling so gently at the hem of his shirt until he could see the red, angry, bruise-flecked skin of his side. Aziraphale gasped, looked up sharply.

“What happened?” his face, previously so soft and open with desire, was closed now, horrified. 

“Crashed m’ bike, don’ worry about it, I’m fine.” Crowley wasn’t ready for this moment to be over, desperately wanted to get back to pressing their mouths together, ignoring the rest of the world in favor of that warm, wet distraction. 

“When?” Aziraphale’s voice was rising with panic. “Was it yesterday?”

Crowley’s hesitation was answer enough. 

All the color had drained out of the blond’s face, he looked like he was torn between tears and vomiting, and Crowley was getting whiplash. 

“Was it… was it on purpose?” Aziraphale whispered, looking so, so afraid. 

“No! Of course not! I wouldn’t – ” but that wasn’t really true, was it. Sure, he hadn’t  _ meant _ to crash, but he hadn’t exactly done the most to  _ stop _ himself either. Not that he could explain that to Aziraphale. There were things he definitely wouldn’t understand, and Crowley’s occasional forays into reckless self destruction were at the top of that list. 

But the worst part, the part that made Crowley feel like the floor had dropped out from under him, was the look on Aziraphale’s face. He didn’t believe him. He thought… thought Crowley had pushed him away, refused to look at him or talk to him, and then had gone and tried to  _ off _ himself. It was unbearable. That he would  _ think _ that, that he would look at Crowley with such grief in his eyes, such betrayal. It  _ hurt _ . A lot more than crashing his stupid fucking bike had. 

“No, no, Aziraphale, listen, I promise, I  _ promise _ ,” he grabbed Aziraphale’s face, did his very best to focus on it, brain feeling rather like it was floating in one of those big glass jars scientists used to preserve specimens of interest, vodka-soaked as opposed to marinating in formaldehyde or whatever it was called. He stared hard at those hurt blue eyes, willed the blond to understand how serious Crowley was. Dead serious. “I won’t. I would never.”  _ leave you like that _ . It went unsaid, but Crowley hoped he heard it anyway, hoped he knew.

He leaned forward, cautiously, maintaining eye contact until Aziraphale’s eyes were too close, had blurred into a soft blue smudge, before he let his own eyes slide closed, pressed their foreheads together a second before he kissed Aziraphale again, closed-mouth, didn’t want to push it, just held himself there, waiting for Aziraphale to respond, kiss him back or pull away or  _ something _ . And with a sigh that sounded suspiciously close to a sob, he did, opening his mouth wide, inviting Crowley in. 

Skated his fingers up along his side, feeling for the edges of the road rash, skimming, soft, barely there brushes. Tender.  _ Fuck _ . Crowley leaned in to him, easing him back, until they were awkwardly bent sideways on the couch, feet still facing forwards but mostly horizontal on the cushions as they kissed hungrily. Crowley was half-lying on Aziraphale, resisting the urge to squirm against him, soft plush thing that he was. 

Aziraphale’s hand had finished its exploration of Crowley’s road rash, drifted down to his hip, fingers catching on his belt loops. Crowley shifted, intending to lean further over Aziraphale, whose hand slipped off his hip and brushed across the front of his jeans. Crowley groaned into his mouth and Aziraphale froze, pulling his tongue back into his mouth and bringing his hands back to himself. Crowley pulled away slightly, confused, and saw the stricken look on the blond’s face. 

“What? Wha’s wrong?”  _ What did I do? _ He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice, wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

Aziraphale was shifting away from him on the couch, extricating himself from under Crowley, who took the hint and backed off until they were both seated on their separate couch cushions, still close, but no longer touching. Aziraphale was looking down at his hands, twisted together in his lap. 

“I’ve never…” he cleared his throat, “never--”

Crowley felt a flood of horror wash over him, a moment’s sobriety finally shocking him into realization of what he had been doing, what he had  _ wanted _ to do. Panic exploded in his chest, and he threw himself backwards, away from Aziraphale, immediately overflowing with apologies, “Oh God, fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… we’re drunk. I didn’t mean to – Fuck, Aziraphale I’m so sorry, please, please forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.” 

Aziraphale looked surprised, but the expression quickly melted into one of such despondency that Crowley found himself biting his tongue. 

“That wasn’t what I… oh. Well, yes, I suppose you’re right… We are a bit – I think... I think I should… I should go.” He looked at Crowley, and there was something almost like hope there, but Crowley couldn’t risk doing something  _ wrong _ again so he did nothing at all, and watched Aziraphale get to his feet and find his wobbly way to the door. 

“I’ll, um. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He had one hand against the door frame, and his fingers were gripping it so tightly Crowley was surprised the old wood wasn’t creaking under his grip. 

He just nodded, throat completely closed up. 

  
Aziraphale walked out the door, Crowley staring helplessly after him, hands open, palm-up on his lap.  _ What did I do? How did that go so fucking wrong? _ He was too drunk to chase after Aziraphale, too drunk to try and coax an explanation from him. They were right fucking back where they had started, only this time Crowley was the one trying to figure out what had gone wrong. What the  _ fuck _ . 


	6. Chapter 6

He spent the whole next day panicking. Should he even go to lunch? Seemed rude not to, considering not showing up for their lunch was the whole reason Aziraphale had come over yesterday to apologize. But was he ready to talk about any of this? No, not at all,  _ especially _ not sober and in broad fucking daylight. 

He spent the entire drive to school flickering rapidly between bravery and cowardice, his brain struggling to reconcile the two, desperately begging him  _ Not now!! _ And knowing the reality that  _ It has to happen eventually _ . He was a mess by the time he got to the soccer field, ten minutes before classes even got out for lunch break, smoked three cigarettes down to the filter while he waited, anxious energy spilling over into twitching, sharp movements, running his hands through his hair over and over, adjusting his sunglasses, tapping his fingers against the low cement wall he was leaning pseudo-casually against. 

A blond head of curls appeared on the other side of the soccer field, and Crowley felt his heart clench in his chest, an ache expanding beneath his ribs, chills racing down the length of his arms. His hands were shaking.  _ Is this what a heart attack feels like? _ He willed himself to be still, to be calm and cool and collected, with little to no success. 

He waited for Aziraphale to sit down next to him, waited for him to make the first move, make  _ any _ move. The blond was looking down at the tray he had balanced on his lap, ostensibly planning what to eat first, when he said, voice ground down and uncertain, “Crowley, I think… I think we need to talk.”

Crowley was definitely having a heart attack now. Or a stroke. Or something. His body had gone haywire, blood rushing all around, he could hear it in his head and feel his fingers warming up, throbbing. Was he breathing? He wasn’t sure.

Before Aziraphale could say anything more, Crowley was talking, words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them, “I’m so sorry about yesterday, we were drunk, or at least, I was really drunk and I totally understand if you don’t want to – ” Crowley cut himself off. Better to let Aziraphale explain himself. It was silent for a moment, Crowley’s heart pounding so hard he was absolutely sure Aziraphale could hear it.

“Crowley, what… um, what are we?” 

Crowley choked, managed to squeak out, “Friends?”

“We’re not…” he paused, visibly collected himself, “Not anything more? Than friends?” 

Crowley definitely wasn’t breathing now, didn’t even  _ want _ to know what his face looked like, was so glad Aziraphale was still staring down into the mystery meat of the day as if it held the script for this conversation and he wasn’t ready to go off book yet.

“Do you… do you want to be? More than friends?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, failed spectacularly.

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodded shyly, still looking down, and Crowley was busy having some sort of medical emergency, he was dying, he was absolutely sure of it and  _ fuck _ if this wasn’t the best day of his entire life. He was so overwhelmed he forgot that Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, couldn’t see his face, and he should probably give some sort of verbal response, but he couldn’t make his face do anything other than stare, awestruck, mouth hanging open like an idiot. He probably looked like he’d lost his fucking mind, but to be fair, that felt pretty accurate.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale finally looked up, took in the stunned expression not at all disguised by Crowley’s sunglasses, and whispered, “Is that… okay?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice cracked horribly, embarrassingly. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, a cautiously affectionate smile blooming as Crowley watched helplessly, feeling rather like he might pass out, actually.  _ What now?  _ Crowley had no idea where he was meant to go from here, no frame of reference to rely on. Sure, he had hooked up with a few people, here and there, but he had never felt like  _ this _ about any of them, was pretty sure sex with Aziraphale, if they ever even got that far, would actually kill him. Which reminded him… 

“So... yesterday. What, uh, what happened there?” 

Aziraphale blushed furiously, and Crowley felt warm all over. 

“I’ve never… you know,  _ been _ with anyone before.” He licked his lips. “And I didn’t want it to be just… just a fling, or something, and I panicked. I – I’m sorry for running out like that.” 

“So it wasn’t… I didn’t – ”

“No! No, it wasn’t your fault at all! I just, well, I got  _ nervous _ because… because I  _ like _ you.” Said with all the grace of a fumbling middle schooler, that emphasis on “ _ like _ ” to indicate a crush. Cute. 

“So you wouldn’t be  _ opposed _ , necessarily, to… doing that. Kind of thing.”  _ With me _ . Crowley didn’t want to scare him off, but he had to  _ know _ . 

“Not... not right away. But… definitely not opposed.” His cheeks were pink, and Crowley wanted to kiss him, immediately and for as long as possible. And he realized, perhaps now he could. There was not a single goddamn reason why he shouldn’t at least try. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked instead, had barely gotten the words out before Aziraphale tackled him, pressed himself all along Crowley’s front, arms looped around his neck, on his tip-toes to reach Crowley’s mouth. 

They kissed, sweet, lingering kisses that had Crowley’s toes curling. Aziraphale kissed him like he couldn’t possibly get enough of Crowley’s mouth, slipping seamlessly from shy, innocent presses of lips to sloppy, wet,  _ demanding _ kisses, his tongue licking at Crowley’s, at his teeth, the roof of his mouth. 

Crowley pulled away, breathless, joked, “Sure you haven’t done this before, angel?” 

He was rewarded with a charming blush, with Aziraphale, eyes still locked on Crowley’s mouth, saying, “I read a lot of books,” before diving back in, pulling Crowley’s lower lip into his mouth, the tip of his tongue nudging at it curiously, before releasing him, kissing the lip in delicious, soft presses. Crowley didn’t know what to do with any part of his body. 

And then Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, just a bit, and  _ oh _ that was – yes, Crowley could definitely keep doing this. He probably made an embarrassing noise but to be honest he could not be fucking bothered, nothing mattered more than getting Aziraphale  _ closer _ . 

Crowley knew it was cliché, but he wanted to know every part of that soft mouth, a peach-sweet secret just for him to tease out in the slick sounds of their kissing, in the soft pleased noises Aziraphale slipped behind his teeth as they met, parted, met again. Crowley didn’t know if he was dizzier from lack of oxygen or the stunning proximity they were inhabiting. 

The bell signalling the end of the lunch hour startled them both, and they pulled apart, a silvery strand of saliva stretching between their mouths for a moment. Aziraphale looked… well he looked downright cherubic, if angels were walking around with their mouths pink and swollen, wet and utterly enticing. His hair had fluffed up, and he was deliciously flushed. 

“Uhm. I’ll uh, I’ll see you later?” Crowley offered, but didn’t release his hold from around Aziraphale’s waist. 

“Yeah. Yes. Later.” Aziraphale looked a bit dazed, gaze still locked on Crowley’s mouth. He licked his lips, tongue darting out in a brief, enticing flicker of pink, and rocked up to press them together into one last quick kiss. He broke away, bringing an arm down from around Crowley’s neck to wipe his mouth. 

Crowley watched him go, trotting quickly across the soccer field (so as not to be late to class, if Crowley knew him, which he did), head still spinning with the dizzying change in their relationship. Aziraphale looked back twice as he walked away, and Crowley could feel a blush climbing his face, spreading across his cheeks, warmth expanding in his chest. 

\--- --- --- 

Well god-fucking-damn. Crowley had driven home in a fog, was now lying on his couch staring at the ceiling, a stupid fucking smile he couldn’t possibly suppress on his face. He and Aziraphale were… dating? Fuck if that didn’t make his stomach do all sorts of ridiculous things, didn’t make his whole body fizz with ecstatic anticipation. 

Aziraphale  _ liked _ him. He felt high, felt like he should have been hearing birdsong, or romantic swells of violins. He felt like a lit match, throbbing and bright and hungry. He needed to calm down, just a bit. 

He let a hand drift down, groped himself through his jeans, thought about Aziraphale’s incredible tongue and his adorable fucking face.  _ Fuck _ , this was not going to take long at all. He couldn’t resist teasing himself though, just a bit, wondered what Aziraphale might try, if he were here. He would probably be all old-fashioned about it, but Crowley didn’t really feel much like constructing an entire romantic scenario in his head, at the moment. He would definitely be doing that later, at length, but right now what he needed was release. 

He rubbed himself through the rough material for a few moments, decided he didn’t want to have to wash these jeans yet, and yanked his belt open, pushing the denim down to his knees, cock springing up as it was freed from its fabric prison, straining against the front of his soft black boxers. He shoved a hand under the waistband, curling it around himself and pulling, twisting just a bit at the end, letting his head drop back, letting his mind wander around fluffy blond curls, blunt tipped fingers, the thick curve of a thigh pressed against him.  _ Fuck _ . It was an embarrassingly short amount of time later that he was curling up, belly tight as he grunted, coming in quick, hot pulses over his fist. 

He panted for a few seconds, then heaved himself up and waddled, jeans still around his knees, to the kitchen to clean himself off. He glanced up at the cheap wall clock, he still had at least an hour before he could reasonably show up at Aziraphale’s door. Plenty of time. 

Of course, he ended up wasting forty minutes messing with his hair and trying on different combinations of shirts and jeans, ended up wearing the same ones he was wearing originally, with a slightly nicer shirt, one of two button-ups that he owned. He was not about to fuck this up. He should have made a plan, but now there wasn’t time, and he’d just have to wing it. 

He pulled up to Aziraphale’s house at five pm exactly, straightened his jacket, checked his hair for the thousandth time in the still-functional right hand mirror, took a deep breath, and walked up to knock on the imposing front door. 

It swung open on his second knock, a square, scowling face he had never seen before staring up at him. 

“Erm, hello. Is Aziraphale home?” He flashed a tight, polite smile.

Crowley knew Aziraphale was the youngest in his rather large family, but this squat little character looked to be about twelve, though he must have been closer to twenty-five.

“Sandalphon? Who is it?” A slightly more familiar voice, Crowley thought it might be Uriel, who he had seen once or twice before when wandering through the house with Aziraphale. 

“Dunno. I think Aziraphale’s  _ boyfriend _ is here to see him.” Sandalphon sneered, and Crowley revised his pity at the terrible name. Fuck this guy. 

“Oh. I’ll go get him, then.” He could hear Uriel’s retreating steps, and he resisted the urge to smooth a hand over his hair, or pull out a cigarette, something to fidget with. 

Crowley and Sandalphon looked at each other in silence for an extremely uncomfortable fifty three seconds, Crowley regretting deeply that he and Aziraphale hadn’t agreed on a time to meet earlier—would’ve avoided all this awkwardness. 

Sandalphon spoke at last, distaste clear on his face, and Crowley wanted to knock his teeth in. Unfortunate that so many of Aziraphale’s siblings were complete assholes. “So, you’re the flash bastard Aziraphale won’t shut up about, eh? You deflowered him yet?” 

“Y- What?” Crowley was so shocked he didn’t even have time to blush, appalled at the little weasel’s audacity. 

“You know, popped his cherry? We had our suspicions Aziraphale was bit of a queer. Wouldn’t have thought  _ you’d _ be his type though.” His mouth twisted into a snarl, or the worst attempt at a smile Crowley had ever seen. 

Crowley’s mouth dropped open.  _ What the fuck? _

Fortunately, he was saved from having to formulate a response by Uriel returning, Aziraphale in tow. 

As soon as the blond came into his eyeline, he forgot all about the squat little asshole in front of him. He didn’t look any different than he had at lunch, just a few hours ago, but now Crowley was finally allowed to appreciate it. 

“Hi.” Aziraphale said shyly, stepping around Sandalphon and pulling the door closed behind him, a derisive scoff following them out. 

“Hi.” Crowley responded, openly staring at him, glad for his sunglasses. He looked radiant.  _ Fuck _ . 

“So, where are we going?” Aziraphale was smiling up at him, guileless, and Crowley wanted to  _ devour _ him. 

“Dunno. Thought maybe we could get dinner?” Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back onto his heels. 

“Like a date?” He sounded excited, grabbed one of Crowley’s arms and started pulling him towards his bike parked on the street. 

“Uh. Yeah, like a– like a date.” He fumbled, cursed his sluggish brain and the nerves coursing through him. He and Aziraphale ate together all the time, this wasn’t anything  _ new _ .  _ But you’re  _ ** _dating_ ** _ now, that changes things, doesn’t it? _ He didn’t know, and the overwhelming newness of it all did absolutely fucking nothing to help him calm down.

\--- --- ---

They went to the least terrible restaurant Crowley could afford in town, a shitty family-owned diner, complete with burnt coffee and exhausted waitresses in stained aprons. 

Once they had settled into the sticky vinyl seats of a booth, menus propped open in front of them, Crowley spoke. “So… I met Sandalphon today.” He waited for a response, but Aziraphale just hummed vaguely, eyes tracking across the menu. 

Crowley tried again. “Wasn’t a very nice conversation.” Aziraphale looked up at that, fear momentarily flickering across his expression. 

“Oh?” The nonchalance was forced, terribly so. 

“Yeah. Was kind of a dick about you, to be honest.”

Azirphale put his menu down, closing it very carefully, keeping his eyes on his hands as he asked, “What did he say?” He seemed to be expecting something, resigned to it, and Crowley was suddenly flooded with such abrupt and intense rage that his hands clenched around the menu, distorting the laminated sheets. 

“Oh, nothing in particular.” Crowley lied, “Must’ve been an experience, growing up with that many siblings.”

“Yes, well, being the youngest was certainly a trial. Mom was always so busy and there were so many of us besides, the older ones were pretty much left responsible for me. Gabriel might be the closest thing I have to a father figure.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh.

“Better than what I’ve got.” Crowley offered, before realizing he’d dropped them into dangerous and uncharted conversational territory. This was meant to be their first real date, he didn’t want to talk about their respective family traumas.

“Did you decide what you wanted?” he deflected, pointing at Aziraphale’s menu, still folded closed beneath his hands. 

“Oh. I was thinking I might try one of their sandwiches? I’ve never been here before. Did you have any recommendations?”

“Sandwich sounds good, I think I might get a burger.” 

It was awkward for a few seconds, the way it never was between them. Aziraphale fiddled with his fork, turning it onto its sides and  _ was he avoiding eye contact? _ Crowley was still trying to figure it out when their waitress shuffled up to the booth, flipped open her notepad with nicotine-stained fingers, and offered them a tired smile. “Can I get you boys anything to drink?” 

“Oh, could I please get an iced tea?” Aziraphale answered, with his usual sunny smile, at the same time that Crowley grunted, “Coffee.” She nodded, jotted down their orders, and shuffled away. 

“So.” Crowley tapped his fingers on the formica table top, nervous. He wished he could smoke in here, or that he had brought along a flask, could self-soothe a bit. _Why is this suddenly so awkward, come _**_on_** _Crowley, this is _**_Aziraphale_**_, just _**_talk_** _to him._

He stuttered through a few false starts before managing, “Any sports you’re following?” _What kind of dumb fucking question is that Crowley, you _**_know_** _him, he doesn’t know a single thing about sports._ He wanted to kick himself. 

Aziraphale just smiled at him shyly from across the table. “Oh no, I don’t know much about sports I’m afraid, more of a bookworm, me.” 

Crowley was mentally screaming, brain desperately casting about for something,  _ anything _ they could talk about. He knew Aziraphale so well, they had shared quite a bit of time together since the year had begun, how was it even possible for him to be struggling so much to just make basic fucking conversation?  _ Because Aziraphale is always talking _ . But then, why wasn’t he now? Crowley didn’t think he looked particularly nervous or stressed. Just… contented, calm. Maybe they didn’t need to talk. Maybe just sitting with him was enough, and if they needed to talk, it would just… happen. Naturally. 

Crowley heaved a deep breath, forced his shoulders to relax and his fingers to stop their frenetic tapping, slouching back into the booth and allowing his legs to sprawl out as they pleased. It only took a minute of forced casualness for their silence to become the comfortable thing it usually was, Aziraphale smiling at him softly from across the table.  _ Fake it ‘til you make it, eh? _

They ordered their food, chatted idly about a paper Aziraphale was writing that debated whether or not  _ Catcher in the Rye _ could truly be considered a bildungsroman. Crowley had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t matter, Aziraphale was excited about it so he was interested. 

The food was exceptionally average, which did nothing to stop Aziraphale’s careful enjoyment. Crowley had finished his burger in about ten seconds, but Aziraphale was still carefully savoring each bite of his sandwich, eyes closing with each new mouthful. Crowley thought he had absolutely no right going around looking like  _ that _ sitting in a terrible diner in a terrible town under terrible lighting, soft and round and deliciously pink. The food had been fine, but Crowley would rather have tasted him. 

Aziraphale underestimated the size of the last bite, didn’t quite open his mouth enough to fit the stack of bread and meat and mayo into it. Normally, Crowley would make fun of him for cramming his mouth over-full, usually so polite in his culinary habits, but his entire attention was diverted to a bit of mayo, a few crumbs still clinging just at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. 

He stared at it for a few seconds as Aziraphale chewed carefully, utterly captivated. 

“You’ve got – here, let me just…” Crowley leaned over the table, reached out, brushed the offending crumbs away with his thumb. All the air left their booth in a rush, the casual camaraderie they usually shared abruptly full of electricity, cloying and tense like a humid day in August.

They made it back to Aziraphale’s house in a haze, tension thick enough to taste between them, sparks arcing with every casual brush of their hands as they walked quickly through the wide white halls, Aziraphale setting the pace as though his need was just as sharp and urgent as Crowley’s, anticipation building with every step that brought them closer to Aziraphale’s room, to his bed, or maybe one of his couches, or honestly at this point Crowley would even be satisfied with the back of the door. 

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate once they reached his room, walked Crowley right over to his bed, sat down and pulled Crowley to him, pushing his sunglasses out of the way and tilting his head up to ask for a kiss. Of course Crowley obliged, tucking himself in between Aziraphale’s legs, hands resting on his shoulders, coming up slowly to cup his face. They were  _ together _ now, this was  _ allowed _ , and Crowley couldn’t help but feel giddy with it.

He tried to be polite when they kissed, hands slow and careful and always above the waist. There was plenty there for him to grip and squeeze and explore. Aziraphale had no such compunctions it seemed, brushing his hands up the backs of Crowley’s thighs, over his shoulders, rucking up his shirt to run curious fingers over the trail of hair between his belly button and the waist of his jeans, tickling. He gripped Crowley’s hip bones, the curve of them fitting so well into Aziraphale’s soft hands, the bruise over his left side smarting under the possessive weight of those fingers, but Aziraphale kept his hands moving, brushing over Crowley’s biceps, his face, all the while making the most exquisite noises against his mouth. Crowley was losing his mind. 

He pulled away, reluctantly, smearing open lips down Aziraphale’s throat, kissing and nosing up the left side, just lightly brushing, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t notice the sudden tension in Aziraphale’s frame, the newly desperate hitch in the noises he was making. He leaned forward, one knee on the bed, between Aziraphale’s thighs, easing them both over to horizontal. 

“Alright?” Crowley had to check, pulling back and looking carefully at Aziraphale’s face, flushed and warm against the cool white of the sheets. 

“Y-yes, yes, yeah, s’ good.” Aziraphale stuttered, clutching at Crowley’s sleeves, pulling him in closer. Crowley obliged, pushed them both back so he could get his knees up on the bed, cautiously lowering his weight onto the blond and mouthing along his throat, just the barest suggestion of his teeth pressing into that smooth perfect skin.

“No – no marks.” Aziraphale panted, grip on Crowley’s shoulders belying his admonishing tone, hips pushing up against him in short abortive rolls.

Crowley just growled in response, unwilling to separate his mouth from Aziraphale for more than a moment. He wormed his way downwards, looking up for permission and receiving an eager nod before releasing the top three buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, pulling aside the collar and biting along his collarbone, as far down his chest as he could reach, leaving small purple bruises over the swell above his left nipple. 

“You’re always so covered up, I’ve got plenty of options,” he murmured against the skin, thumbing open another button for better access, teeth brushing teasingly over the peaked nub before closing around it, soothing the sting of his bite with soft dry presses of his lips. Aziraphale suddenly tensed, arched against him, a short high cry issuing from his lips. 

Crowley pulled back, surprised, watched as a damp patch formed and spread across the front of those pale, probably tailored trousers, felt his gut tighten with arousal at the sight. 

“Did… Did you just – ?” Aziraphale blushed and brought his hands up to hide his face, embarrassed. 

“S-sorry! It– I didn’t mean... I didn’t even want to–” he mumbled against his palms. Crowley felt a rush of horror, _what have you _**_done_** _Crowley, he said he didn’t want to do that kind of thing right away, how can you expect him to stick around if you can’t even– _Aziraphale had peeked through his fingers at Crowley’s abrupt stillness, and he must have been doing something with his face, because Aziraphale was suddenly full of reassurances, pulling his hands away from his own face to pet up along Crowley’s sides, careful over the road-rash.

“No, wait, Crowley that isn’t what I meant, I wanted… well I just wasn’t expecting to…” he looked down at his crotch, probably starting to feel uncomfortably sticky, and made a frustrated noise. “I just wanted…” his voice lowered, nearly a whisper, “I just wanted to kiss you more.” And then, in an actual whisper, “I didn’t know it would feel like that.” 

Crowley was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He had flipped so quickly from aroused to horrified to apologetic and now his body was trying to get him back to aroused again, and his brain was absolutely not having it. He slid back from Aziraphale, stood just long enough to get around his knees and lie down next to him on the bed, propped up on his side, still close, but no longer pressed so tightly together.

“I’m – I’m sorry. Aziraphale. I didn’t – I wouldn’t – We don’t have to…” He was struggling, mumbling down towards the sheets, wouldn’t look Aziraphale in the eye, felt so terribly vulnerable without the protective layer of his sunglasses. 

“No, I know Crowley. I know you would never make me... I – I trust you.” 

That was too much, and Crowley had to swallow a few times and blink hard to stop himself from crying like an idiot. He was so fucking  _ weak _ for this boy. It was  _ embarrassing _ . 

“Did you still want to – ?” Crowley shifted closer, “with the, the kissing, I mean.” 

Aziraphale nodded, but paused for a moment, eyes flicking down to his ruined trousers. “Uh. I think I might… might change clothes, though. If you don’t mind.” 

  
“Not at all.” Crowley waved a hand, obligingly turned his face into the duvet to give Aziraphale some privacy as he stripped off the offending garments, making a few noises of disgust and dismay at the mess. Crowley had to bury his laugh in the soft white cotton, tucking his head in and inhaling the scent of Aziraphale that stuck to the fabric, feeling… well, feeling  _ something _ . He was a bit unsure what it was, at the moment, but it was good, felt light and full and oh, maybe... he was just… happy? Blissfully happy, like everything was absolutely right in the world. It felt nearly foreign, like he had stolen it, like someone would notice it was missing and come around to snatch it back away from him. Best to ignore that thought, bask as long as he could. 


	7. Chapter 7

Their shared daily ritual of lunch hour had transformed itself. It was no longer a time for chatting, Aziraphale eating whatever garbage the cafeteria was handing out that day and Crowley smoking cigarettes to distract himself from such an unintentionally enticing display, and had become instead an opportunity for the two of them to get rather  _ intimately  _ acquainted with each other’s mouths, and necks, and ears. There was a lot there to investigate. 

More than once, they got a bit carried away and had to stop abruptly, had to separate themselves and cool down for a minute or two, pink-faced, lips bruised and sore from kissing, trousers uncomfortably tight. It was  _ torture _ . But it was so,  _ so good _ . 

It turned out Aziraphale had exceptionally sensitive ears, a fact Crowley exploited mercilessly. 

He had discovered it after their first week of dating, when he had brought his hands up to trace over Aziraphale’s temples as they kissed, brushed over the shell of his ears, tugged a bit on one earlobe while sucking on Aziraphale’s lip, and he had made such a  _ noise _ ,  _ fuck _ . Crowley wanted to hear it again, so he replaced his hands with his mouth, gently traced the very tip of his tongue around the edge of Aziraphale’s ear, pulled the lobe between his teeth and tugged just a bit, and Aziraphale melted against him, clutching at his shoulders and gasping out “Crowley, Crowley,  _ Crowley _ ,” his name sounding so sweet in that mouth. By the time Crowley released his ear and sat back, putting a few inches of space between them, they were both flushed, panting, and overwhelmed. 

“So. Um. Sensitive ears?” He couldn’t help but ask, the suggestive smirk on his face somewhat ruined by his swollen lips and bright, flushed cheeks.

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale answered, still trying to catch his breath, his flush creeping down past the stiff line of his collar, ears as red as his mouth. They both glanced down at his crotch, at the obscene tent that had formed and was taking its sweet time in calming back down. Crowley wanted nothing more than to bury his face in it. Oh, he was so  _ fucked _ . 

Aziraphale gave just as good as he got, very thoroughly took his revenge when he found out that Crowley had a particular weakness for being bitten, and  _ hard _ . He wanted  _ marks _ , and after token hesitation, Aziraphale was only too happy to oblige. He didn’t want to  _ hurt _ Crowley— he had protested, in the beginning—but the sounds Crowley made when Aziraphale sank his teeth into the side of his neck very quickly brought the blond around. 

The purple smudges ringed Crowley’s throat like some sort of terribly unfashionable necklace, bruises distinctly mouth-shaped, clear semi-circles of tooth-marks impressed into the soft flesh. He peacocked them around proudly, and sure, maybe no one would know they were from Aziraphale—it wasn’t as though they were holding hands while they walked through the halls, their only time together spent sequestered away in some secret corner of campus where they wouldn’t be disturbed or seen—but Crowley didn’t care, because  _ he _ knew whose mouth had put them there, had marked him up like a possession. And he  _ loved _ it, wished the bruises would never fade, poked at them when they started to heal, just to feel that ache for a little longer, remind himself that Aziraphale  _ wanted _ him. It was intoxicating. 

But it was also so goddamn  _ frustrating _ . Three weeks on, and they saw each other every single day. They could make out for hours, hands skidding and gripping, shifting and grabbing with greedy fingers, and it had only gone beyond that just the once. Crowley would never push Aziraphale to do anything he didn’t want to but  _ fuck _ . Kissing him was blissful, unquestionably, but the sexual tension was starting to get to him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It didn’t matter how much he masturbated when Aziraphale wasn’t around, how desperately he tried to purge his body of the impulse to ravage the thoroughly buttoned-up blond, as soon as Crowley saw him again all his efforts went out the fucking window and he was right back where he had started. He was on edge constantly, sharp and bright and it nearly  _ hurt _ how desperately he wanted Aziraphale, but he saved all his self control for their time together, spent all the rest giving in to any impulse which might soothe his racing mind, if only for a moment. 

Which is how he had wound up where he was right now, the sharp biting air of a November evening a welcome sting against his face, veins just starting to feel thick and sluggish with alcohol, two towns over, standing at the edge of a quarry, and thinking  _ Huh. For bragging rights?  _ Taking a step closer, leaning over to check the drop, he was interrupted by an abrupt blare of sound, a tri-colored light flashing in the semi-dark. Cops. Fuck. 

“Please step away from the quarry.” A crackling loud speaker, a voice that expected obedience. Crowley mentally shrugged and stepped back from the edge, turned himself around, hiding the flask he was holding under the back of his jacket. 

“I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me to the station, son.” A tall, ugly blond man was stepping out around the cruiser door, flashlight in one hand, the other resting near his holstered weapon. 

“What? Why? ‘M not doin’ anything illegal.” Crowley put on his best innocent face, showed off wide, guileless eyes. 

The cop looked at him incredulously, eyes narrowed. “This is private property here, and I got reports of someone matching your description driving like a maniac. I’ll just bring you in, call your parents, and they can come get you, hm? No harm done.” 

A chill crawled slowly up Crowley’s spine. Call his parents? 

“Now, if you resist me, I’ll have to use force, and neither of us wants that, right? Just come with me, and nothing bad is gonna happen to you.” The officer flashed a crooked, toothy smile Crowley assumed was meant to be comforting, but ended up feeling more like a threat. 

He resisted the urge to shift his weight between his feet, tucked the flask into the back of his jeans before shoving his hands nonchalantly into his pockets. “Yeah, alright then.” As long as they didn’t handcuff him it didn’t go on his record, right? It wasn’t official, he wasn’t in real trouble.  _ Yet _ , a traitorous part of his mind suggested. 

“Can you tell me your name, son?”

“Anthony.” He said it quietly, bitten off at the end like he hoped the officer might not hear it.

“Alright, Anthony. Would you happen to be carrying any weapons; guns, knives, anything I should know about?” 

Crowley thought of the flask pressed against his lower back, burning against his skin. “No.” 

As he made his way over towards the flashing lights of the car, he realized something and stopped short. “My bike?”

“You can come back and get your bike later,” the officer assured him, opening the rear door of the cruiser and guiding Crowley in with a hand between his shoulder blades. 

\--- --- ---

The ride to the station was quiet, Crowley idly looking around the back of the car and then focusing his gaze out the window, watching trees and houses slip by, lights flickering on, families sitting down to dinner. 

The station smelled like cigarettes and instant coffee and the way old laundry did sometimes, like sweat crusting on a forgotten shirt. Crowley sat obediently, waited with more patience than he had shown for anyone but Aziraphale in years. He absolutely could not afford to fuck this up. 

A second officer joined the first one, a bright young-looking thing, smooth brown hair pulled back into a high pony-tail. She introduced herself as Sandy, told Crowley her partner’s name was Mark. 

“Can you tell us what you were doing out there, Anthony?”

Crowley made careful, steady eye contact. “Just went for a drive, thought I’d check out the old quarry.”

“Mmhm. Do you have someone we can call to come and pick you up?” She offered him a smile, warm and broadcasting:  _ you’re safe with me, you can tell me anything _ . It made Crowley’s skin crawl. 

“Well there’s– there’s my dad.” He offered, knew there was no way around it. 

“And can you give us a number for him? So we can call and let him know you’re here?” 

“Oh he– he travels. For work. Yeah. Won’t be home for awhile probably, and it’s just me and him, so.” He shrugged, prayed they would let him go without tracking down his father first. 

“I see. And there’s no one else?” Crowley kept himself still, refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him shift nervously. 

“Ah, no. Just us. Me and my dad.” 

“Okay, well, unfortunately we can’t let you leave the station until we can contact someone to come and pick you up.” 

“Oh.” Crowley’s heart sank. “Wait! There’s uh, there’s my cousin! Yeah, I can call him, and he can– he can come pick me up, right?” 

Sandy smiled, “Sure, hon. Just give us the number and we can call him right now, how’s that?” 

“Oh, uh– can… can I call him? Instead? I don’t want him to freak out or anything, you know.” 

Her smile turned slightly brittle, but she nodded, led him over to a bank of phones along one wall of the station, gave him a quarter. He dialled, held his breath as the line rang, an authoritative “You’ve reached the Holiers’ residence, may I ask who’s calling?” Crowley didn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t surprise him. 

“Yeah, hey, it’s uh, Crowley? Listen, is Aziraphale there? I really need to talk to him.” 

There was a long pause, a shuffling sound, and then a blessedly clear, “Hello?” and Crowley had never felt such intense relief in his life. 

“Hey. Aziraphale. Listen, uh, do you think you could bring Gabriel or something and come get me? I’m at the, um, Cobston police station and they won’t let me leave without an adult relative.” 

“Cobston?... Police station!?... Crowley, we aren’t even related!”

“I know, I know, but please, Aziraphale? They can’t reach my dad. I really... I need your help here.” 

A prissy huff, so very Aziraphale. “Fine. I suppose I’ll see you soon, then.” And a click. 

It took him a long time to get to the police station, and Crowley was helpless to do anything but watch the plastic wall clock as the minutes ticked by, Mark and Sandy thankfully leaving him well enough alone. He watched as ten, twenty, thirty-five, forty minutes crawled by before a familiar face walked in, eyes searching. 

“Crowley!” He rushed over, grabbed Crowley’s face in his hands, turning him this way and that as though checking for injuries, palpably angry but still so worried for him.

“Uh, hey Aziraphale. Gabriel.” He nodded at the man standing close behind the blond, still wearing that fake smile and still dressed in that slick grey suit, a large wool coat folded over one arm. 

“Crowley.” The greeting was exceedingly neutral in tone, but Crowley got the distinct feeling Gabriel was disappointed in him, and irritated about being dragged out here to rescue him. 

Gabriel dealt with Sandy and Mark, signing whatever paperwork they needed with a flourish before tucking Crowley under his arm, pulling him along to the exit like one might a disobedient dog. Appropriate, for pretending to be a relative picking up an unruly youngster from the police, Crowley supposed, but it felt distinctly threatening. 

Not three minutes into their drive back home, Crowley realized his bike was still at the quarry, and broke the tense silence to ask Gabriel _ very _ politely if he wouldn’t mind turning around to bring him to it. Gabriel’s hands flexed on the steering wheel, but he said nothing, just turned the car around and kept on. 

It was completely dark outside by now, and so quiet inside Gabriel’s car, Crowley felt like he was suffocating. All he could hear was the road under the tires, the occasional tick of Gabriel’s turn signal, the carefully calm, controlled breathing from the front seat. He wanted to say something, anything, but he knew Aziraphale was mad at him and he didn’t want to start a fight in front of Gabriel. That would be far too embarrassing for both of them. 

They pulled up to the quarry, the headlights of the car slicing through the dark, showing off the scratched-up left side of the bike in painful detail, the duct-tape holding the left-hand mirror in place, shadows harsh and exaggerated in the bright wash of light. Crowley got out, walked hesitantly over to the passenger side door, waited for Aziraphale to roll down the window enough to hear him. 

“Thank you for– well. Thanks. I’ll uh, I’ll talk to you later?” Hesitant, stumbling, wanting so desperately to have not fucked this up beyond repair.

The blond said nothing, just made an “I’m angry with you” face that Crowley wasn’t all that unfamiliar with, though usually he could manage to talk his way out of it. But not right now. Not with Gabriel sitting right there, listening to every word. Crowley nodded, stepped away from the car, heard more than saw it pull away, tires crunching over gravel as he mounted his bike.  _ Well fuck _ . 

Crowley didn’t even bother to pretend he was planning to drive home. No, he was going to go straight to Aziraphale’s house, was going to sneak around the back and hopefully be able to figure out which window led to his room so he could throw rocks at it like a stupid rom-com or something. 

It was surprising that he hadn’t done something like that already, hadn’t snuck over to Aziraphale’s house to see him, but they’d been friends long enough before they’d started dating that Crowley sleeping over had become almost commonplace, and there was really no reason to be so secretive about it if he wanted to stay the night (which he  _ had _ in fact done since they had started dating, still carefully leaving Aziraphale alone in his bed and contenting himself with a nearby couch). Besides, Aziraphale had told Crowley that he didn’t want to tell his family, wasn’t ready to come out yet, and that was fine by him. They were still tiptoeing around, still feeling out the edges of this thing they had, and Crowley hadn’t wanted to be the one to push it, but now he’d gone and forced his own hand. 

\--- --- ---

Aziraphale’s house (mansion) was the same looming white monstrosity in the dark, paint so stark and clean it almost seemed to fluoresce in the night, as though it absorbed sunlight during the day and glowed in the dark. It was fucking creepy, if Crowley was being honest. 

He carefully picked his way onto the property, scrambling over the black wrought-iron fence and running in a crouch over the perfectly kept grass, already stiff with early frost, past a tiny greenhouse that he had never noticed before. He and Aziraphale should go there sometime, he thought to himself, have another picnic maybe. He reached the corner of the house, stared up at the no-less imposing back side of it with a twinge of anxiety. What if Aziraphale refused to see him? What if he accidentally picked the wrong window, and got one of his siblings instead? 

He slunk around the structure, picked the window he was  _ pretty sure _ was Aziraphale’s, and risked throwing a tiny pebble at the dark glass. It pinged off and Crowley waited a moment. No response. He tried again, a slightly larger pebble this time, one that made a satisfying clicking noise as it bounced away. If Aziraphale was in his room, it would definitely get his attention. 

The window was roughly thrown open, a familiar blond head poking out into the dark and glaring downwards. “What do you want, Crowley?” he whispered harshly, clearly angry but mindful of his siblings and the late hour. 

“We gotta talk, Aziraphale. Can I come up?”

“No you most certainly can  _ not _ .” 

“Please, just for a minute, I promise, and then I’ll leave.”

Crowley could see Aziraphale wavering. He had learned not to press his advantage in times like these; it was better to wait for the blond to talk himself into it. 

“Fine.” His head disappeared back into the room. 

Crowley clambered up, the window-sill just above his head from the ground, high enough that he had to jump slightly to get a good grip on the frame, and then wiggle himself up and over it rather un-gracefully. 

By the time he had pulled himself through, rolled off Aziraphale’s bed, and dusted himself off, Aziraphale was standing in front of him in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his pajama-clad chest and a scowl on his face. Crowley tried very hard not to categorize it as cute. 

“What do you want, Crowley? I am very angry with you right now.” 

“I just wanted to apologize, you know, and– er, to thank you again for getting me out of that whole mess. I really, uh, really owe you one.” 

Aziraphale sighed, sounding exhausted. “I worry about you, Crowley, you know I do, and then you go and do things like this, call me up at 9 PM to say you’re in a police station in a town thirty minutes away, and what am I supposed to think?” 

“I– I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.” He dropped his chin, chastised, “I don’t know what else you want from me.” 

“What were you even  _ doing _ out there, and how on Earth did the  _ police _ get involved?” 

“I was just driving around, thought I might go take a look at the old quarry, heard it was pretty cool.” He kicked the ground lightly, digging the toe of one boot into one of the carpets Aziraphale had scattered around the room.

“Are you lying to me right now Crowley?” His arms were still crossed tightly over his chest, but his face had softened a bit and he looked more tired than angry. 

Crowley’s head shot up at that. “No! I’m not– I wouldn’t.” But he could see that Aziraphale didn’t believe him, wasn’t satisfied with his answer. He dropped his gaze again, muttered, “You wouldn’t understand” towards his feet, regretting the words even as he gave voice to them. Fucking nighttime, making Crowley feel safe, making him act stupid and vulnerable. He should have planned out this conversation in advance, but he had just been so desperate to get to Aziraphale and apologize before this turned into an actual fight, and now he was paying for it.

“I might, if you try and explain it to me.” 

Crowley cuffed a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull, to make himself focus with just a tiny bit of pain. He swallowed.

“Sometimes it just… I just feel like I’m going so  _ fast _ , and I can’t even try to stop myself. Like nothing I do matters at all because I can’t… I can’t  _ change _ anything. It’s just so  _ frustrating _ , and no one seems to fucking  _ care _ . And sometimes I just get like, like this  _ itch _ under my skin and I have to do dumb shit, like drinking too much or driving too fast or starting fights.” 

Aziraphale was silent, and Crowley refused to look at him, didn’t want to see dawning understanding becoming disgust, becoming  _ pity _ . His heart was racing, reminded him  _ you’re alive you’re alive you’re alive _ with each beat; and, not for the first time, he wished it would just shut up for a bit. 

“I know it’s stupid, and it’s reckless, but I never planned to– I mean, I never thought I’d live to see my twenties anyway, and sometimes… sometimes doing dangerous, stupid shit makes me feel like it actually  _ matters _ , like we’re not all just put here to die. Like maybe there’s something out there worth living for, and if I just throw myself at it hard enough, maybe I’ll be able to reach it.”

Aziraphale made a small, hurt noise, and Crowley wanted to go to him, to pull him in close and take the words back, pull them out like splinters, fix the hurt he could see on that lovely soft face. 

“I- I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I’m just a fuck-up. I know I am, and I know… I know you don’t understand that. And it’s okay, really, but you asked, and that’s the best truth I can offer you.” 

“Crowley…” he sounded on the verge of tears, and Crowley’s heart squeezed in his chest, his lungs compressing down to the size of fists.  _ No, no, no, no, look what you’ve  _ ** _done_ ** _ ! It’s all fucked up now, you fucked it up and you can’t take it back _ . 

Crowley felt his arms reaching out to comfort before he thought better of it, pulled them down to his sides, hands balled into fists, kept the mess that he was to himself. 

“So, uh, I guess I’ll just–” his voice was rough, his own tears threatening, bleeding through into his words. He cleared his throat, jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the window behind him. “I’ll just go, then.” He made to turn around but was stopped by a harsh, desperate grip at his elbow, wide blue eyes brimming with tears staring at him beseechingly. 

“Please. Please don’t.” 

And that was enough. That would always be enough. 

“I won’t. Not ever.” He wasn’t talking about just tonight, hoped Aziraphale knew that. He continued, so, so quiet, “Not unless you ask me to.” It was nearly midnight, after all. The appropriate time for confessions, for admitting the kinds of things that one told themselves they might never say. 

“Would you do something for me?” 

“Anything, angel.” He knew he sounded pathetic, didn’t even care. 

“Anytime you feel… like that. Please. Just come– I’ll help you, please just don’t… don’t run away from me. _ ”  _

Crowley dropped his gaze to the floor, could feel his fingernails digging into the flesh of his hands as his fists tightened at his sides. “I can’t… I can’t promise that. I– I’ll try, but I can’t… It’s not–” 

“Just try for me. Please.” 

“Aziraphale– You can’t... You can’t  _ fix _ me. I’m not– I’m just a fucked up person, okay? I’ve been like this my whole life. God knows I wish you could fix it, but you can’t, you just fucking  _ can’t _ .”

“Crowley, that’s not– I don’t  _ want  _ to fix you. I just– I just want you to be safe.” 

God, but it hurt to hear him sound like that, like he knew he was powerless, like he was standing up single-handedly to fight an entire storm system, knew it was impossible but was so determined to try. For him. For Crowley, notorious disaster that he was. No one had wanted that for him, not in his whole entire goddamn life. No one had been willing to stick around long enough to try. 

He could feel his face folding, cheeks pulling up and brows pulling down, trying to squeeze his eyes shut tight enough to stop the tears that wanted to spill over onto his cheeks. The hot drip of them felt like lighter fluid, like he was combustible, the slightest spark a threat to his very soul. It  _ hurt _ . 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale had stepped towards him, wrapped him in lovely soft arms and  _ squeezed _ until Crowley was worried he might crack a rib, but it felt right. Satisfied that itch. He dropped his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder, let himself be held, just a bit, huffing out wet breaths and trying so hard not to cry all over Aziraphale’s doubtlessly expensive pajamas.

Crowley stepped away after a minute, the sheer overwhelming  _ tenderness _ of the gesture too much for him. “Aziraphale…” He didn’t know what he was going to say, but it didn’t matter anyway, because Aziraphale had grabbed his face in those warm hands and pulled them back together until he could kiss Crowley, kiss his lips and his nose and the tears from his cheeks. It was just so  _ fucking much _ , Crowley didn’t think his body was built to handle it. His entire chest ached, like his squeezed lungs and heart had expanded to over-full, threatening to crack open his ribcage and keep going, expose the very softest parts of him to air. 

His palms ached, too, that ache like when you’ve been holding your breath too long, and he brought them up to hold Aziraphale, to tie himself to that softness. It felt like breathing again, like finally breaking the surface of the sea to see the sky.  _ Fuck _ . 

The kisses had been soft, sweet, but as soon as Crowley brought his hands up they became hungry, gasping things. Aziraphale immediately started pushing him backwards, towards the bed, shoving at his jacket with grabby hands, couldn’t seem to keep himself from running his palms over any part of Crowley he could reach. It felt good, felt like being  _ known _ .  _ Fucking sop _ . 

It was a familiar enough dance, by now, but there was an unexpected edge of urgency to Aziraphale’s movements, like he had a  _ destination _ in mind. Not that Crowley minded, no, not at  _ all _ , but he didn’t want the blond to feel like he  _ had  _ to do this now, had to offer himself up to prove something to Crowley. 

“Az-” He was cut off with a kiss, “Aziraphale, we don’t–” another kiss, “We don’t have to do this right now.”

“I want to.” His blue eyes blazed in the dark of the room, serious, and so, so sincere. 

Well, who was Crowley to deny him? 

Aziraphale waited for him to clumsily step out of his boots before pushing him back onto the bed, crawling over him, cupping his face in those soft hands, kissing and kissing and  _ kissing _ . It was so good, Crowley managed to forget for a moment that Aziraphale wanted more. But then Aziraphale’s hips dropped down, and a high pitched groan was pushed into his mouth, too loud for the time of night. 

“Shh, shh.” Crowley hated that he had to say it, wanted nothing more than for Aziraphale to be as loud as possible, wanted him shouting with it. His hands slid down, carefully, grabbed at the swell of Aziraphale’s backside, dug his fingers in and pulled  _ down _ towards his own straining hips, as best he could with four layers of clothing between them. 

Aziraphale made another noise, more like a whimper, high and soft, still offered up like a gift into Crowley’s mouth. He drank it up hungrily, ground them together, as though if he could only get them close enough they might meld into one.

Aziraphale shifted slightly backwards, hands reaching between his own legs, tugging at the button and zip of Crowley’s jeans. 

“Let me– let me see you.” Crowley couldn’t help his groan at that, couldn’t help the way his spine arched up, hips flexing underneath the body seated over top of him.

Aziraphale pulled his cock out reverently, tested the heft of it against his palm, made a cautious loose circle around it and gave a tentative stroke, wide eyes flickering up to look at Crowley’s face as he did so, tightening his fist and moving with a bit more purpose when he received an encouraging nod. Crowley dropped his head back to the bed and groaned, tried to trap the noise inside his mouth before it could get too far away from him. His own hands scrambled for the front of Aziraphale’s soft sleep trousers, untied them and went to get his hands under the waistband, met with no resistance at all from the blond in his lap. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Aziraphale.” Aziraphale just nodded in agreement, panting already, cheeks a delectable pink visible even in the dark, eyes wild and locked on Crowley’s dick sliding in and out of his fist. 

Crowley finally got a good look at Aziraphale, his wrist holding the pajamas out of the way, exposing the delightfully flushed curve of his cock, just peeking out of its foreskin, a bead of fluid swelling at the tip as Crowley adjusted his grip. 

Aziraphale whimpered again, couldn’t seem to stop himself from making broken, high pitched noises as both their hands worked steadily, and it was uncomfortably dry but it didn’t matter because it was  _ Aziraphale _ and he was  _ touching  _ him. Shit, but it was so good. So much better than anything else he had tried, anything he could have thought up himself. 

“Fuck, Aziraphale, fff- Oh Christ. Fuck me. Please fuck me.” 

Aziraphale’s hand stopped, and so Crowley’s hand stopped, and they stared at each other for a tense second. Crowley opened his mouth to take it back, but Aziraphale preempted his spluttering, a curious look on his face. 

“But… but we’re both boys?” Crowley wanted to scream with frustration, how did he not  _ know _ , how was he so fucking  _ innocent _ . 

“I’ll show you, I can show you, can I show you?” he was begging, already stupid with it, lost in thoughts of configuration and preparation and and  _ and _ … 

Aziraphale sat back, shifting out of Crowley’s lap and releasing his hold on Crowley’s cock. 

“Please.” He sounded intrigued, like this particular act had never even occurred to him, and Crowley couldn’t get his jeans off fast enough, wiggling around on the bed like a maniac, struggling with the tight material. _Jesus fucking_ _Christ why did he wear these things?! _

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, and Crowley wasted a second feeling embarrassed before realizing how utterly ridiculous he must’ve looked and joining in, finally managing to kick the damn things off into the dark of the room. 

He rearranged himself on the bed until his back was propped against the veritable mountain of pillows Aziraphale kept, knees up and opened wide, hips pushed forward obscenely, baring himself to the room. 

Azirapahale shuffled up, settled himself between Crowley’s feet, still fully clothed, began to run his hands softly up and down Crowley’s legs, palms cupping his sharp kneecaps and then trailing gently down to caress the jut of his ankle, circling back and around over and over.

Crowley brought a hand down between his legs, couldn’t help but grip himself for a moment, giving a few good strokes before he let his hand slip lower, watching as Aziraphale’s eyes widened, looking equal parts aroused and mortified at the sight of Crowley touching himself here, two fingers gliding across his tightly furled opening, just the barest suggestion of pressure, rubbing between his cheeks. 

“Oh, damn.” Crowley’s fingers paused. “Uh, hey Aziraphale you wouldn’t happen to have any, um, any, uh, lube around here would you?” Crowley choked out, ridiculous that he was sitting here in front of Aziraphale, fingers up against his own asshole, and couldn’t manage to say the word lube without verbally stumbling around it.

But Aziraphale didn’t seem perturbed, eagerly scooted to the edge of the bed to rummage through a tiny chest of drawers he kept next to it, balancing precariously atop a stack of books, because of course it was. 

“Ah!” he made a triumphant noise, tossing the little bottle to Crowley, who looked at it with no small amount of surprise. The bottle was new, but it had definitely been used, and Crowley needed a minute to make room for that in his brain, the thought of Aziraphale using this on himself, touching himself and, fuck, what if he had thought about Crowley while he did it?

“You… you have lube.”  _ Really fantastic observation there, Crowley, you’re doing  _ ** _so_ ** _ great with the whole communication thing _ . 

Aziraphale blushed violently, settled himself back between Crowley’s legs for optimal viewing, wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes when he nodded, looking rather guilty. “I– well if you must know I was having some trouble with, uhm, chafing, and all the books said to get lube for it so I did and–” Crowley couldn’t help his laugh at that, the idea of Aziraphale masturbating so furiously and so often he chafed, consulting some ancient dusty tome on how best to ease his way. 

“And?” he couldn’t help prompting, if only to see that blush darken and spread, staining his ears and his neck a delicious pink. 

“It… it helped.” 

Another helpless laugh, and Crowley was sure he’d never laughed while propped open for someone like this, had to compensate for the sudden surge of self-consciousness by dumping way too much lube on his fingers and shoving them back between his legs. 

He kept his eyes closed, head tilted back, knew he wouldn’t be able to handle watching Aziraphale watch him. Even the thought alone made his cock twitch against his stomach. He would take this slow, he decided, give Aziraphale a real show. 

He traced the pads of his two fingers over himself, hypnotic circles just to get his body used to the feeling, that always-unfamiliar pressure. The sensation wasn’t new to Crowley, but it had been awhile since he had last done this, with himself or anyone else. 

With each pass of his fingers he pressed a little harder, dipped the tip of one finger in just a little bit further, until it sank in up to the first knuckle and he decided he’d had enough of teasing himself, even if it was for Aziraphale’s benefit. 

Aziraphale sucked in a gasp as Crowley’s finger pushed in deeper, most of the way to the second knuckle before pulling back out, collecting the lube spread around his hole and easing in again, further still. Aziraphale’s hands had stopped their gentle tracing of Crowley’s shins and had shifted to grip at his knees, as though worried Crowley might snap them closed, deprive him of the sight of Crowley fingering himself open.  _ For him _ . 

Crowley couldn’t help the groan that slid out of him as he pressed a second finger in alongside the first, the same pattern of carefully increasing the depth, the stretch pleasant and strange but easier like this. Once he had gotten two fingers buried to the hilt inside himself, wrist bent awkwardly and hand just starting to cramp, he risked opening his eyes. 

Aziraphale was enraptured, the flush of arousal creeping down past the collar of his pajamas, eyes bright and locked firmly on Crowley’s hand between his legs, one of his own hands having abandoned its post on Crowley’s knee in order to tug gently at his cock, hand moving unmistakably within his pajamas, like he couldn’t help himself. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ .” Crowley whispered, with feeling. “I’m almost–  _ hah _ – ready, and then you can– oh holy  _ shit _ .” Aziraphale had moved his other hand from Crowley’s knee and was using it to trace where Crowley was stretched around his own fingers, the same way he had done in the beginning to acclimate himself.

“Christ, if you keep that up I’ll come, I swear I will.” Crowley was whimpering now, sounded utterly wrecked as Aziraphale kept up the soft brushing of his fingers. Crowley managed to cram a third finger in himself, decided that was quite enough of that, and pushed Aziraphale backwards, until he could clamber over on top of him and straddle his hips. 

He reached with greedy fingers back towards Aziraphale’s cock, then paused for a moment and dropped his head. “Ugh. Condom. We should use a condom.” 

He looked back up at Aziraphale, hair riotous, lips bitten and pink, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, would have if it wasn’t for the stricken look on his face. 

“Oh. I, uhm. I don’t… have any. I thought...?” He sounded hurt and for a second Crowley was confused, dazedly trying to figure out why Aziraphale would be upset about using a– oh right. Monogamy. 

“Oh. No, that’s not– It’s fine. I just meant for the, er, mess. But I’m not… I mean I haven’t… it’s just you.” Not the most eloquent, but to be fair, most of the blood in his body did not care that he was trying to think, and refused to divert itself back up to his brain. 

“Well, you can’t get pregnant, so I didn’t think we…” Aziraphale paused for a second, seemed to reconsider. “Can you?”

Crowley burst into laughter, crumpling forward against the blond’s pajama-clad chest.

“Nope. Absolutely zero risk of pregnancy here,” he managed to get out between gusts of breathless snickers that were probably too loud, but he couldn’t help it.

Aziraphale sighed in relief, sending Crowley into another fit of giggles. He would have kept laughing too, if he hadn’t felt Aziraphale’s cock brush against the inside of his thigh, the small smear of wetness it left behind throwing him back into arousal at a speed that nearly gave him whiplash. “Right, yes. Fucking.” 

He grabbed the lube again, slicked himself and Aziraphale over, then looked up, locking eyes with the blond. 

“Good? Yes? Ready?” He was breathless with both laughter and arousal—and wasn’t  _ that _ a new feeling—but he couldn’t focus on it, crouched over the curve of Aziraphale’s dick as he was, reaching a hand to position it against himself. He shuddered at the feeling, that broad, blunt head nudging up against him.

Aziraphale just nodded, brought his hands up in a vice grip around Crowley’s hips as he sank slowly downwards. Crowley hoped it would leave bruises. 

It took a bit of maneuvering, they’d got the angle wrong in the beginning and had to adjust, but  _ oh _ , once Crowley had sunk down to the hilt, could feel the soft material of Aziraphale’s pajamas against the undersides of his thighs, that was it. 

He began to rock, slowly, not quite fucking himself down onto Aziraphale but riding him, rolling his hips forward and back, one hand on the center of Aziraphale’s chest to balance himself, trying so hard to keep quiet despite the liquid fire his blood had become, the molten glass feeling in his gut, the heat and press of Aziraphale thick inside him. 

Aziraphale reached down between them with still-curious fingers, down to where Crowley had opened so beautifully for him, stretched tight and smooth. 

“Does it– does it hurt?” he asked, eyes wide, looking nearly afraid. 

Crowley shook his head, body trembling, eyes squeezing shut as Aziraphale traced over his rim, the sensitive skin sparking with the feeling. “ _ Fuck _ . No, ‘s– feels good. Really good.” 

“But it’s so  _ tight _ .” He sounded wondrous.  _ Fuck _ .

“Nghh.” Words were hard.

Crowley adjusted his knees, crouched over Aziraphale, the change in angle making his whole body flush with pleasure, finally lifting himself up, body clenching against the loss, before he slid back down again. 

“ _ Fuck _ , you feel so good, angel.” He began fucking Aziraphale in earnest, bouncing enough to make the bed squeak underneath them, springs compressing with every drop of Crowley’s hips. 

It wasn’t very long before Aziraphale started whispering urgently, pushing his hips up to meet Crowley with every downstroke. 

“Crowley. Crowley I think I’m… I think I’m about to–” 

Just the thought of it sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine, and he dropped down harder, faster, rocking them together until the frame of the bed began to sway as it squeaked, both of them utterly uncaring of the absolute racket the damn thing was making. He leaned himself forward, panting encouragement to the body beneath him, urging Aziraphale onward, begging him to come. Aziraphale’s grip on him shifted, forced Crowley to lean back and suddenly his spine was straightening as though he had been shocked. 

“Oh,  _ fuck! _ ” That was the ticket, Aziraphale’s fat cock rubbing against his insides so  _ perfectly _ , stretching him wide, the head just nudging his prostate in the  _ best _ way. He was definitely being too loud, but he did not fucking care at all anymore. His hand rushed to his cock, not gripping, just holding it between his thumb and two fingers, gently pulling the skin over and around the tip, massaging the leaking head.

Aziraphale made a high whining noise when he came, his attempts to stem the sound resulting in something that sounded vaguely like a broken kettle whistle, choppy squeaks interspersed with near-silent gulps of air. His hips rolled against Crowley as he bore it, shaking and curling forward, the soft swell of his stomach juddering under his pajama shirt, now damp with sweat. 

Crowley rode him through it and rolled off as soon as the tension had left Aziraphale’s body, as soon as the hands on his hips relaxed their grip. Immediately lying back, he pulled his knees up and apart, shoved three fingers into himself and started fucking them in roughly, his other hand vicing around his dick, and he couldn’t get the angle right like this but he was so close, he just needed… he needed....

Aziraphale had turned onto his side, eyes rapt on Crowley, chest still heaving with exertion. He reached a hand cautiously over Crowley’s hip, moving down, towards his thighs, slipping inwards as he went. “Can I–?” Crowley released a punched-out noise, coming hard before Aziraphale’s fingers had even fully crept between his legs.

They lay there a minute, both still panting, mess of the bed be damned, until Crowley had collected himself enough to roll halfway onto his side and press a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, tender and soft like he would normally never let himself be, the way he was just for Aziraphale. 

“So…” started Crowley, not wanting to break the silence but feeling like he had to say  _ something _ , “that was….”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale had tucked his head under Crowley’s chin and was softly dragging his fingers along Crowley’s sides under his shirt, newly streaked with come. He  _ glowed _ with contentment. “We should do that again.”

“What? Now?” Crowley couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice, wondering what kind of monster he’d unleashed here. 

“No, not now,” Crowley could practically  _ feel _ him blush, “but definitely again.” Aziraphale sounded so… blissful, body relaxed and loose on top of Crowley, didn’t appear to mind the sticky mess both of them were quickly cooling into. 

If Crowley were honest with himself, he didn’t particularly mind either. He rather liked being marked by Aziraphale, especially in this way. His overfull heart was slowing in his chest, and he brought his arms up around Aziraphale, tucking them in close together. He would have to leave soon, he knew; he couldn’t stay forever no matter how much he might want to, but for now, this was enough.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t until the fourth time they had sex that Crowley noticed it. 

Aziraphale categorically refused to remove his shirt. It only took him so long to notice because they stayed mostly clothed when they fucked, as teenagers are wont to do, too desperate to bother with actually disrobing any significant amount beyond what was necessary to gain access to the relevant parts. So how could Crowley have noticed that Aziraphale didn’t take his shirt off? He hadn’t taken his off either, the first two times, and it wasn’t until his hands slipped under the blond’s undershirt as they kissed, pulling it up with clear intent, only to have them gently pulled away, that he realized anything was amiss. 

He looked up at Aziraphale, the question clear on his face. Aziraphale just blushed, held Crowley’s hands away from him and muttered some bullshit excuse Crowley couldn’t even be bothered to listen to, it was so clearly a lie. 

“Aziraphale. You’re a terrible liar. What’s actually wrong?” But Aziraphale refused to elaborate, and they were halfway undressed already, so Crowley decided to stow the conversation away for another time. 

“Another time” ended up being six days and two unsuccessful attempts to disrobe Aziraphale later, both of them rumpled and flushed from yet another hour of furiously kissing on Aziraphale’s bed, at-home-siblings be damned. 

“Why won’t you let me take your shirt off?” Crowley asked it very quietly, tucked it into the intimate space between them as they pulled apart for air, close enough together that he could feel his own breath rebounding back at him off Aziraphale’s face. 

“What? That’s not– I haven’t–” Aziraphale was immediately defensive, spluttering, hands yanked away from Crowley to tug downwards on his fully-buttoned shirt, as though trying to cover up even more of himself. 

“Aziraphale. Please, just tell me.” Was he self-conscious about something? Did he have some sort of scarring? Maybe a skin condition? Or did he just not want to be vulnerable like that, even around Crowley? Crowley tried not to let the last thought hurt. 

“I’m… I’m…” Azirphale was struggling, still pulling on his shirt, though Crowley noticed he wasn’t just pulling it down, but also  _ away _ from himself. “I’m  _ soft _ .” 

“I don’t understand.” Crowley knew he was soft, why the fuck else did Aziraphale think he wanted to get his shirt off so badly? 

“It’s– I’m soft and you’re… you’re not. You’re...  _ you _ and you  _ look _ –” Aziraphale stopped, tried to bury his head in Crowley’s bony chest.

“Look what?” 

Aziraphale sighed, sounding frustrated. “You’re, you know,  _ attractive _ . You–” But Crowley didn’t let him finish. 

“You think you aren’t attractive?” He couldn’t help sounding dumbfounded.  _ How _ could Aziraphale not see how utterly perfect everything about him was? How could he not see how Crowley adored every goddamn part of him? 

Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Crowley felt like he had been kicked in the chest. A feeling he was not all-together unfamiliar with, in fact. “But… but you  _ are _ . I don’t understand, how can you not– You’re  _ so _ … you’re, you’re  _ everything _ . I– rgh!” Crowley let out a small shout of frustration, irritated that he couldn’t articulate himself the way he wanted to. 

“Please let me, just let me show you, Aziraphale. I want to show you.” 

Aziraphale pulled his head back from Crowley’s chest, face twisted in such incertainty it made Crowley feel like a fucking idiot for not having  _ noticed _ this, for not having addressed it sooner and impressed upon the blond how utterly  _ gone _ on him Crowley was, how much he absolutely  _ adored _ that softness. 

“I’ll go slow. I promise. Please, Aziraphale, let me do this for you.” 

Aziraphale still looked uncertain, but he bit his lip and nodded slightly, didn’t pull away as Crowley lifted the very edge of his shirt, pulling it up just high enough to expose his belly-button, the delicious roll of fat that rested above the waist of his trousers. It was dusted with the softest of downy blonde hair, a fair few purple stretch marks providing delicious contrast against cream-pale skin. Crowley was so pathetically in love. 

He wiggled his way down the bed, pushed Aziraphale onto his back and crouched over his knees, bent low so his nose just brushed along the exposed skin of his belly, nuzzling into him, hands coming up to stroke along his sides. He wanted to pinch, tug,  _ bite _ at that lush roll, but that would have to wait for later. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” Crowley gripped his hips, the overflow fitting so perfectly into his long-fingered hands, that flesh that spilled over the waist of his pants just an inch or two, gave Crowley something to lust after, something to fantasize about having tucked between his own thighs. 

“Crowley,” he said in a whine, “You’re embarrassing me.” 

“What? No, you don’t understand, you’re… you’re  _ perfect _ .” Said with such reverence it approached blasphemy, “I just, I see this, see  _ you _ , and I  _ know _ you’re– that you– Ugh. You  _ deserve _ to feel good.” Hedonism had never looked so delicious.

Aziraphale was blushing, squirming, uncomfortable under such blazing attention, under the bright adoration clear on Crowley’s face as he parted those decadent thighs, settled himself between them, hands clutching at their thick heft greedily, so full of wanting.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale tried to bring his hands up, to cover himself back up with the shirt, to hide away.

“Just let me, please, I just…” muffled into the softness of his belly, the round plush curve of it against his mouth, “let me show you angel, please.” He carefully pulled Aziraphale’s hands up and away, holding them down against the bed for a moment to clearly express  _ stay _ , before pressing himself back up against Aziraphale, leaning in close, offering him a conciliatory kiss as he undid the bottom three buttons of his shirt, parting it for just an inch more access to Aziraphale’s skin.

He slid back down, couldn’t resist pausing for a minute above Aziraphale’s belly button, offering up a mischievous eyebrow to the blond before descending to blow a rather loud raspberry against him. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s hands flew up to pull Crowley away from him and stop the ticklish feeling, curling his knees up and unintentionally highlighting the delicious crease of his full stomach. Crowley buried his face in it, laughing at Aziraphale’s offended spluttering above him.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist, I’ll be serious now.” He pulled Aziraphale’s hands away from his hair, kissed each of his wrists reverently before holding them down against the mattress again as he pressed soft kisses to Aziraphale’s stomach, soothing and hungry in equal measure. A smile still pulled at the edges of his lips, unsuppressable. 

“God, I don’t even know where to start,” he muttered, pulling back a bit to just survey, trying to think of the best way to communicate to Aziraphale how incredible he was, how much Crowley wanted him.

He ran careful hands up to Aziraphale’s chest, cupping his shoulders before sliding his hands back down and resting his palms over the swell of each side, sighing softly. “You’ve got such broad shoulders, did you know?” He didn’t wait for a response, “I hope you know how much I love your shoulders, how strong they are. I bet you could throw me without even breaking a sweat.” 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sounded embarrassed again, was shaking his head back and forth against the pillows, trying fruitlessly to hide his scarlet face.

“And your chest, too, you hide yourself too much with all those layers, but I suppose I might never leave you alone if you didn’t.” That wasn’t true, not really, though Crowley would certainly relish the opportunity to see Aziraphale in his shirt-sleeves, out and about, looking tempting as anything. 

He let his hands slip downwards, to Aziraphale’s sides, gripped the extra flesh on his ribs with greedy fingers. “God and your stomach, your sides, lush thing that you are. You’d be the envy of any painter, or sculptor, I’m sure of it. Just  _ look _ at you, luxurious little thing.” He couldn’t help baring his teeth, licking his lips obscenely, wanting so badly to bite that soft pale skin, leave his own bruises alongside the dark lines of Aziraphale’s stretch marks.

Aziraphale had stopped trying to hide his face, was just staring at Crowley now, cheeks still flushed and getting darker with every word, but he seemed resigned to the attention. That was an improvement, at least. 

Crowley brought his hands down to cup Aziraphale’s hips where they spilled over, just barely kneading at the flesh, unable to resist. “These hips, _fuck,_ you have no idea what they do to me. Just, no idea Aziraphale.” He started to rock down against the blond, could feel an answering hardness pressing back against him, was delighted to know Aziraphale wasn’t just submitting to this as an indulgence to Crowley. 

He kept up the soft rhythm of his hips, brought his hands down to Aziraphale’s thighs, hefted them up and hitched them around his own bony waist. “Your thighs, these  _ thighs _ , Aziraphale.” He couldn’t help an indulgent moan as he grabbed at them, flesh giving under his hands, too thick to fit in a handful and everything Crowley wanted. “They’re so… God, they’re so  _ good _ you have no idea. I think about your thighs  _ constantly _ , Aziraphale. All the time. Fuck.” He was getting a bit carried away, he had to admit, but Aziraphale had started to push himself up against him, using those thighs to lift his hips and press them together.

“Crowley…” he was breathing fast, hands still obediently at his sides as he tried to get himself closer, arching his spine and pressing himself against the thin frame tucked between his legs. 

Crowley started to slowly unbutton the rest of Aziraphale’s shirt, from the bottom, careful, kissing each exposed triangle of skin as the buttons released one by one, until Aziraphale was bare-chested beneath him, still rolling their hips together. 

“Can we… like this?” Crowley dropped to one elbow, his weight pressing Aziraphale down into the bed, spine curving to accommodate the fullness of him and keep their hips pressed tight together, friction just this side of unbearable. 

“Yes, yes– Crowley–” Aziraphale brought his hands up, clutched at Crowley’s back, keening the way he did when he was close. Crowley tucked his chin in, pressed hungry kisses along Aziraphale’s throat, the padded line of his collarbones, muffled the adoring nonsense that wanted to spill out of his mouth. 

Aziraphale came first, surprising both of them. Crowley immediately shifted to the side, straddling one of those plush thighs instead and grinding down against it with renewed fervor. It only took a minute more, Aziraphale’s hands drawing encouraging lines up and down his flanks, before he was curling over, panting out a weak approximation of Aziraphale’s name. 

Crowley didn’t roll away though, just slumped over the blond as he caught his breath, vaguely worried he hadn’t managed to make it clear how badly he wanted every part of Aziraphale that he could have, how every bit of him appealed to Crowley in a visceral sort of way that he had no control over. Probably part of the whole being in love thing. 

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the side of his hair, started gently nudging him sideways and off his lap in order to close his shirt over himself. Crowley made a sad sound, still too dazed with post-coital bliss to elaborate any further than that, tucking his arms up under the open shirt to prevent its closure and worming his way even closer against the blond. 

“Crowley, come on, budge up and let me– it’s… it’s cold in here.” That wasn’t true, and Crowley just resisted Aziraphale’s soft pushing more pointedly in response, cuddling up to his chest and muttering, “I’ll keep you plenty warm,” into his neck, fully prepared to take a nice nap just like this, sticky pants be damned. 

“Crowley, be reasonable here, we both have to– to get up eventually, and preferably soon, before–” he looked down at his crotch, “ _ this _ crusts up and ruins these trousers.” 

“Mmm. Don’ wanna. Comfy.” 

“Crowley.” A monumental sigh, and then Crowley was being quite unceremoniously thrown off Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Hey!” Crowley spluttered, then a sly grin crept over his face, “told ya you could throw me.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” But he said it with a smile, and that had to count for something, right? 

\--- --- ---

By the time Christmas break rolled around, Crowley and Aziraphale had settled quite comfortably into a rhythm. They couldn’t sit out by the soccer field anymore, unless they wanted to freeze to death in the snow, so they would find some quiet, warm corner of campus to wile away the lunch hour, chatting, trading soft kisses and laughing at stupid jokes. They would almost always go to Aziraphale’s house and watch a movie, or lounge around his room while Aziraphale read a book, or make out on his bed, maybe even fuck if none of his siblings were too close-by.

It was  _ good _ . Crowley had never been so warmly content in his entire goddamn life and he knew there was no way it could last. It must have been some sort of cosmic mistake, right? He wasn’t meant to experience  _ happiness _ like this, wasn’t meant to feel so  _ comfortable _ , so  _ buoyant _ and  _ in love _ . That was for other people, people like Aziraphale. Not Crowley. But hey, gift horse and all that. 

So he didn’t hesitate when Aziraphale asked him if he wanted to come over for Christmas dinner, some big to-do that the Holiers put on every year. It wasn’t as though Crowley and his dad had any plans. He probably wouldn’t even be around anyway, so what was the harm? It was important to Aziraphale, a big holiday dinner where he could meet the whole family, and how could he refuse that? So he agreed.

That was his first mistake.

\--- --- ---

Christmas eve dawned cold and bright and quiet. A solid eight inches of snowfall had accumulated over the past week, and the holiday meant the snowplow only came by twice, very early in the morning and again at night. It also meant that Crowley was freezing. He had forgotten to load up the ancient wood stove shoved in the corner of his father’s room before going to bed, and it had burned down sometime in the night, leaving the house about as warm as a goddamn icebox. The uncontrollable waves of shivers were what woke Crowley up, and his teeth immediately started chattering away, jaw aching as though he had been clenching his teeth against it all night. Maybe he had. 

But none of that mattered. Today was Important, with a capital-I. He was going to have dinner with Aziraphale’s entire family, all eleven of his siblings plus his mother and who knew what other family might be there, and it was absolutely imperative that he not fuck it up. 

He shook himself to standing, keeping his threadbare blanket wrapped tight over his entire body while he shuffled into his father’s vacant room to restart the wood stove.  _ Damn old house and its lack of central heating. _ Once he had the fire going again, he could go back to bed. It wasn’t as though he had any other plans for the day. Aziraphale would probably be busy, helping with cooking or whatever other pre-Christmas traditions his huge family had, so Crowley was on his own until dinner. 

Around 4 PM Crowley finally rolled himself out of his blanket cocoon on the sofa and went to get ready. He shuffled through his dad’s closet, looking for anything that might sort-of fit him that wasn’t full of holes, and that didn’t smell of either vomit or cigarettes. He managed to find one shoddy jacket on the far left, moth eaten and dusty, a faded slate grey. It would have to do. He threw on the second of his button-up shirts, the wrinkly off-white of it clashing terribly with the jacket, but he really had no other options; and his nicest, loosest pair of jeans. He surveyed himself in the mirror, winced at the terrible fit of the jacket and the mismatch of colors, slicked his hair down to the side, making a face at how much he looked like a poorly dressed church choir boy or something, and steeled himself for the inevitable awkwardness of a family dinner with his boyfriend. 

Driving a motorcycle in the snow was a nightmare, but he couldn’t very well  _ walk _ all the way to Aziraphale’s, so he threw on his warmest jacket—too short in the sleeves and his constant companion in the winter months—grabbed Aziraphale’s gift, and slowly made his way through the snowy silence of the streets, dark in that way that only winter is, when night arrives much too early and falls like a thick wool blanket, muffling everything. 

His fingers were completely numb by the time he reached Aziraphale’s house, lit up like the very definition of Christmas cheer, strings of lights wrapping around the entire façade, terrible little plastic lawn ornaments of reindeer and the Nativity scene set up in the front yard, nearly buried in the thick layer of snow. 

He paused before knocking on the front door, took a few deep, freezing breaths of night air to clear his mind and calm him down, remind him to stay on his very best behaviour, regardless of any jabs Aziraphale’s family might make at him. Par for the course at a family dinner, as far as Crowley was concerned. He only vaguely remembered his own family’s Christmas dinners before his mother left, and they always ended in tears and usually at least one thrown object. So. Couldn’t be worse than that, right? 

Gabriel answered the door, wearing a  _ very _ nice suit, grey as usual, but with little white accents and a pin-straight tie done up tight around his neck. 

“Ah, Crowley. Come on in, I’ll have someone tell Aziraphale you’re here.” At this he threw a vague glance behind him, probably looking for a sibling to do his bidding. “I can take–” He paused, frowning at the strange shape of Crowley’s jacket, wrapped as it was around Aziraphale’s gift. 

“Oh, uh, I think I’ll just um, go and put this in Aziraphale’s room? If that’s alright?” 

Gabriel’s smile didn’t waver, but a muscle in his cheek twitched and Crowley resisted the urge to flinch in response. “Sure.” He swept an arm to his side, gesturing the way towards Aziraphale’s room as though Crowley hadn’t been here hundreds of times. 

“Er, thanks. Happy, uh, happy Christmas.” Crowley stuttered, fast walking his way to Aziraphale’s room, palms already sweating after just one harmless sibling interaction. Fuck, this was going to be a long night. 

He offered a perfunctory knock as he was opening Aziraphale’s door and was unsurprised to find the blond all dressed up, seated in a chair and reading some thick leather-bound book. 

“Hey.”

Aziraphale looked up, smile brightening his whole face, “Crowley! You made it!” 

“‘Course I did. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

The smile softened, and Aziraphale lay the book to the side carefully before getting to his feet and making his way across the room towards Crowley, throwing his arms around his neck when he reached him and planting a loud kiss on his lips. 

“I missed you.” 

“Missed me? It’s barely been two days, angel.” 

“I know, but still.” Another kiss, softer and sweeter this time. “I did.” 

Crowley could feel himself blushing, still unaccustomed to Aziraphale’s particular brand of freely offered affection, even after nearly two months of dating him. 

“Hey, I got you something.” He hefted the jacket-wrapped bundle in his arms, and Aziraphale pulled away, clapping his hands together in delight. 

“Oh! You shouldn’t have! I got you something as well, but I thought we might wait until after dinner to do the gift-giving?”

“Fine by me.” 

Aziraphale beamed, waited for Crowley to deposit the gift on the ground before taking his hand, pulling him back in for another kiss. 

“Dinner should be ready soon, we should go out and mingle.”

“Mingle? I thought it was a family dinner, don’t you all do enough mingling living together?” 

“Well yes, but you know what I mean.” 

They made their way—no longer holding hands but close enough to brush shoulders nearly every step—to the dining room; an expansive wood-panelled monstrosity Crowley had never seen before, with a table long enough to seat at least twenty and incredibly ostentatious place settings, complete with name cards for each plate. Most of the siblings were there already, not yet seated but drifting around the room, every last one of them dressed to the nines.  _ Did these people just use this as an excuse to break out their formal wear? _ Crowley felt incredibly inadequate in his too-large suit jacket and his wrinkled off-white shirt. He didn’t even  _ own _ a tie, probably should have asked to borrow one from Aziraphale, but it was too late now. 

Someone rang an honest-to-God  _ dinner bell _ , as if this was some sort of fancy murder-mystery and they were all about to be told that their host couldn’t make it, unfortunately, but that they should all enjoy the meal because it might be their last. Crowley shook off the ominous thought, but quickly realized once everyone had seated themselves—after much shuffling of napkins and settling of skirts and jackets—that the seat at the head of the table  _ was _ in fact empty. He nudged Aziraphale, thankfully seated next to him, and nodded towards the empty plate. “Who’s missing?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. “I thought she might make it this year.” 

“Who?”

“Mom. She’s always so busy, and invariably scheduled for the worst possible shifts. I can’t remember the last time she made it to a family dinner like this.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s chest twinge with sympathy. Absent parents were something he was quite intimately familiar with, as they both knew by now. “What does she do?”

“Oh, this and that. She runs her own consulting business on the side and that takes up a lot of her time, but she formally trained as a doctor, and since she’s a specialist she’s basically  _ always _ on call. She has more degrees than everyone at this table combined.” 

That sounded like an exaggeration, but at this point Crowley couldn’t be sure. This family was weird as hell. 

“Ah.” Crowley reached for the crystal wine glass he assumed went with his plate, managed to bring it to his lips and take an incautious swallow before he recognized the ten sets of eyes glaring at him.  _ Oops _ . 

Gabriel, on the right hand side of the empty head of the table, cleared his throat and reached for the hands of the siblings next to and across from him. “I’ll say Grace.” They all linked hands, and everyone save Crowley bowed their heads and closed their eyes.  _ Ah yes, how could he forget? Religion and all its trappings. _

“Thank you God for your everlasting bounty. We kneel in awe of your Grace, and thank you for the nourishment we use here today to sustain ourselves and shore up against the influence of Evil.” He paused, and Crowley started to let go of the hands on either side of him, but Aziraphale tightened his grip and Gabriel continued, “Thank you for this bread, and this wine, and the miracles that have allowed each of us to come together today in exaltation of your most holy Gifts. We thank you for these victuals which we are about to enjoy, and we are eternally grateful to You for bestowing upon us that of which we are not worthy.” Another dramatic pause, then, “We humbly ask you to shield us from Evil and deliver us to salvation, amen.”

_ Well, that was a bit of a thing _ . Crowley had never heard such a dramatic performance made out of saying grace, nearly scoffed at the ostentation of the little speech, but he murmured a respectful “amen” along with the rest of them, before a woman dressed as a chef, puffy white hat and all, entered the dining room from what Crowley assumed to be the kitchen, carrying platters overflowing with food. Enough to feed thirty, forty people, and here they were, a humble thirteen, watching a veritable feast lay itself before them. Crowley probably looked stunned, couldn’t help but gape at the sheer  _ volume _ of food that had been made for the occasion. He could have fed himself off of this meal alone for  _ weeks _ . 

There was the soft clattering of silverware as each person served themselves a bit of what was in front of them, before passing the platter or bowl along until everyone had heaped their plates to overflowing. Crowley looked down at his place setting, hesitating when he saw that there were three differently-sized forks and two spoons, along with two knives and a set of some sort of tiny forked utensils he had never seen before. He had no idea which to use, snuck a glance at Aziraphale and followed his lead, picked up the middle-sized fork to dig in. Who needed more than one fork anyway? It was just ridiculous. 

It was quiet for a few minutes as everyone tucked into the meal, and then one of the siblings Crowley still didn’t recognize cleared his throat and dabbed over his mouth with his napkin. “So. Aziraphale. Heard you got some acceptance letters already.”

Aziraphale just smiled politely and nodded, mouth still full of some sort of delicious sauce-soaked meat Crowley had never tasted before (though that wasn’t necessarily saying much). He carefully finished the mouthful, bringing his own napkin up to his mouth and it suddenly occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale’s food behaviours were probably learned. Were in fact probably drilled into his head from a very young age by some aging marm with a vendetta against children. He shuddered to think of it. And of his own manners, heinous as he knew they were.  _ Yeesh _ .

He tuned back in to the conversation just in time to hear Aziraphale finish whatever sentence he had been in the middle of with, “–but most of them don’t send out their acceptances until quite a bit later in the year, not everyone does rolling admissions after all, and I was sort of holding out hope for Brown.” 

“Brown? What happened to Yale? You know the family legacy there is important, Aziraphale. If you won’t even consider it, why bother with any of the other Ivies? It seems to me like you aren’t taking into account how the rest of the family might feel.” The man settled his napkin back over his lap, not even looking at Aziraphale as he spoke.

Crowley could see Aziraphale’s lip twitching, knew the blond wanted to press his lips together the way he did when he was upset or angry, could see him fighting the reflex.

“I  _ am _ thinking about the family.” Aziraphale finally managed to spit out, the words barely squeezing past his clenched teeth. “Just because I don’t want to go to Yale doesn’t mean anything. It’s my choice, isn’t it?” 

No one responded.

“What are you planning to study?” Another unfamiliar sibling asked after an uncomfortable few moments, decked out in a lush green evening gown, curls pinned in some incomprehensibly complicated fashion, huge heavy earrings catching the light in the most distracting way. 

“Oh, well, I thought I might do a double major.” This met with several curious and appraising glances. “I was thinking I might study theology–” a chorus of approving hums– “and literature.” Silence. 

“What on earth could you want to study literature for, Aziraphale?” That was Uriel, seated at the far end of the table from Crowley, dwarfed next to the broad shoulders of Gabriel. “What could you possibly do with a useless major like that?” 

“Oh, well, uh, I like reading a lot, so I just thought…” he swallowed, and even sitting right next to him Crowley could barely hear his next words. “I thought it could be… fun.”

“Fun? Fun doesn’t pay the bills, Aziraphale. You can’t just leach off the family forever, you know. You’re going to have to get a real job eventually.” 

“Well, I thought I might… I thought I might open a bookshop, someday, maybe…” he trailed off, swirling his fork through the remains of the sauce on his plate. 

“A bookshop?” Uriel’s sounded incredulous, disdainful. “That’s a bit pointless, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale said nothing, just stared down at his plate. 

“Perhaps he can go back for a law degree, I’ve heard reading-heavy majors help with law school.” Green Dress suggested, and turned expectantly to look at Aziraphale, who was still staring down at his plate. 

“That’s a great suggestion, Cassiel. Always nice to have more lawyers in the family.” Gabriel chimed in, nodding approvingly.

“Yeah, maybe.” Aziraphale’s jaw was tight, and Crowley had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something inappropriate, from coming to Aziraphale’s defense in front of his family. 

He hadn’t prepared himself for this. He had assumed any vitriol would be aimed at him, the outsider, but to see Aziraphale’s own family dismiss his interests like that? To dismiss  _ him _ ? Crowley brought his left hand under the table, clenching it into a useless, angry fist on his thigh. He wanted to say something, could feel his chest burning with it, but he knew firsthand how much Aziraphale would not want that right now. It would only make things worse. He needed to keep his damn mouth shut. 

“Well that’s settled then. And what does your  _ friend _ plan to do?” Cassiel asked, and Crowley was immediately thrown into panic.  _ Plans? _ He didn’t have any plans. He didn’t know what he’d be doing a few months from now, forget the  _ future _ . 

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, didn’t seem to understand the stricken look on his face, grabbed at Crowley’s hand where it was still tightly fisted on his thigh, wiggling his fingers in until their hands were linked. “Actually, Crowley is my  _ boy _ friend.” 

There was a ringing silence, not even the scrape of tines on porcelain as every sibling froze at once, expressions ranging from shock to horror to some sort of fucking sadisitic glee.

And if Crowley thought he had been panicking _before_, well _now_ he was no longer physically attached to his body, forced out by the pounding rush of terror that filled him to the brim, overflowing in too-quick breaths. _Did Aziraphale really choose _**_this fucking moment_**_ to come out to his whole family? _**_This_** _one!?_

Silence reigned for a whole six seconds, and Crowley had the hysterical thought that he could hear the perfect synchronization of everyone’s watches as they ticked along inaudibly.

“I  _ knew _ it!” Sandalphon crowed from somewhere on the other side of Aziraphale, voice vindictive and proud. 

“Sandalphon! That’s enough.” Gabriel, voice booming and authoritative, almost too loud after the heavy silence that had preceded it. “We will be talking about this.” He glanced around the table, eyes serious and blazing, with anger or authority Crowley couldn’t tell, “ _ Later _ .”

“Oh, no, I think we should talk about this  _ now _ .” Sandalphon was grinning, and the cruel lilt in his voice was all too familiar to Crowley.

Another sibling spoke up from beside Sandalphon, “I’m sure it’s just a phase, nothing to worry about, he’ll grow out of it.” 

Aziraphale made a noise of protest, and Crowley wanted to sink straight into the very nicely polished floor.  _ You need to  _ ** _shut up_ ** _ , haven’t you learned not to fight them by now? _

“It is  _ not _ a phase, I know what I want.”  _ Please shut up,  _ ** _please_ ** _ , Aziraphale you’ll just make it worse _ . But of course he didn’t, lovely,  _ stupid _ idiot that he was. “I’m not a  _ child _ anymore! Just because I’m the youngest doesn’t mean you can boss me around for the rest of my life! I’m practically an adult and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I don’t need your permission. I don’t need  _ anyone’s _ permission.” Crowley had never heard Aziraphale talk like this, never heard him so angry and righteous. It was kinda hot, if he was being honest.  ** _Not_ ** _ the time, Crowley, get your mind out of the fucking gutter. _

It was silent again, a tense sort of silence rather than a shocked one, and Crowley decided now was as good a time as any to get away from this whole mess of a subject. If no one else was going to say something, he might as well try to salvage the situation. 

“Well, uh-” twelve pairs of eyes swiveled to him, and he wanted to shrink into nothing. “I thought I might stick around here a bit, after graduation. Help with the, uh, the family business.” If Crowley had learned anything in the past seventeen years, it was this: when in doubt; smile, nod, lie through your teeth, and hope no one catches on. 

It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but the relief at the change in subject was palpable around the table, tension easing just a tiny bit. 

“Oh? What business might that be?” Asked a new sibling, long dark hair pulled back into a neat braid at their nape, bowtie a stunning blue that matched their eyes precisely. 

“My dad’s a…” Crowley fumbled for a moment. His father wasn’t employed at all, as far as he knew, but it wasn’t like he could tell Aziraphale’s family that he was a career alcoholic and they barely had enough money to feed themselves. “He’s a mechanic. Yeah. He’s uh, got a shop in the next town over, and I thought I might help out there for a bit, until I figure my sh– self out.” 

There was another heavy silence, and Crowley could  _ feel _ their judgement. Rude bastards. Not everyone went and got a fucking Ivy League education, and it wasn’t like it was  _ his _ fault that he came from a family so poor that he wouldn’t be able to afford to go to college even if he  _ wanted _ to. Which he didn’t. But still. At least he’d successfully diverted their attention away from Aziraphale, who was still gripping his hand tightly underneath the table. 

“That’s…  _ nice _ .” Blue-Bowtie finally said, their smile a painfully forced thing. 

Everyone went back to eating, or at the very least staring at their plates, smaller conversations starting up as the meal dragged on. 

Aziraphale’s hand stayed linked in Crowley’s, making it much harder for him to eat properly, with only his non-dominant hand free, but he refused to let go, and Crowley supposed that was fair enough.

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale nearly whispered to him, a private conversation in the middle of the crowded table. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for.” Crowley responded, with much more bravado than he actually felt, and gave Aziraphale’s hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Dinner continued at an agonizing pace, and just when Crowley thought they might be free, the chef came back in from the kitchen, carrying a huge tray of desserts. He steeled himself for another painful half-hour of stilted, mine-field conversations; but to his immense relief, it seemed that dessert was more of a do-it-yourself type deal, left on the table as some of the suit-wearing siblings started talking about going to the smoking room (because of _course_ Aziraphale’s family had a smoking room), for cigars and port; and the more dress-inclined siblings fixed themselves plates of dessert to carry over to a more comfortable room, probably with a roaring fireplace. _Pretentious as it fucking gets_. 

Aziraphale’s hand in his pulled him to his feet, barely sparing a glance towards the decadent spread of pastries and cakes and sweets, and a vague feeling of unease crawled up Crowley’s spine at the sight of Aziraphale turning down dessert. They left the room unnoticed, and Crowley couldn’t help the massive sigh he released as soon as they were out of earshot, shoulders slumping and a sudden feeling of exhaustion overwhelming him. 

“You alright?” Aziraphale asked, and he looked just as exhausted, face lined as though he had aged forty years in the last two hours. 

“I should be asking  _ you _ that question.” Crowley deflected, but it was true. He would be fine, had been through much worse, and it wasn’t as though  _ he _ was the one who had come out to his family and gotten a less-than-stellar reception.

“I have a bottle or two of really nice wine in my room, if you’re interested. Stole it right out of the cellar.” Now  _ this _ was more familiar territory.

“Thank fucking God,  _ yes _ .” 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale so determined to get fucked up, would have been worried about it if that didn’t smack of incredible hypocrisy. They split the bottle about evenly, unlike their typical 70/30 arrangement, sitting together on a couch facing the bed, watching snow drift across the window in flurries of white, backs to the door as they passed the wine back and forth, swigging straight from the bottle.

It really was a rather nice wine, and Crowley felt a little bad for having it wasted on him, not exactly being a connoisseur of that sort of thing, but fuck it, Aziraphale deserved whatever he wanted right now. And if that was silence and a bottle of very nice wine, Crowley was glad to give it to him. 

Aziraphale broke the silence eventually, swallowing down the dregs of the wine before looking at Crowley very intently. “What’s your favorite season?”

“What?” Crowley was buzzed, not even particularly close to drunk, but the question was so out of the blue he struggled to process it for a minute. “You mean like, winter, summer, that kinda shit?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite.”

Crowley had no idea why the blond might want to know, decided it might be more entertaining to find out than answer straight away. “What do  _ you _ think it is?”

Aziraphale seemed to consider, swinging the empty wine bottle back and forth in his fingers. “Hmm… I think you like winter.” He said, decisively. 

“An’ why’s that?”

“Because. Because winter’s, you know, ‘s quiet.  _ So _ quiet. And clean. Especially when it snows. An’ it’s cold but its soft, too. You know how sometimes when its really cold outside, but you’re inside, you feel like maybe you’re the only person in the whole world, and it doesn’t feel bad, you just feel like you’re in a chrysalis, you know, like butterflies? And things have more weight in the winter too, because it’s so inhospitable outside. Just one kindness or cruelty can be the difference between life and death for someone. It just makes regular stuff  _ matter _ more, you know? And people are always complaining about it, but without winter the rest of it’s so… boring. I can’t imagine not having a winter.” He smiled goofily up at Crowley, and maybe half a bottle was enough for Aziraphale to be drunk, or maybe he was just in a particularly honest mood, but Crowley didn’t mind in the least, felt like he was about to do something stupid and embarrassing, like tear up, or tell Aziraphale that he loved him, and that definitely couldn’t be allowed to happen. 

“You know,” Crowley mused, “I always thought fall was my favorite season. All the colors you know, and it smells like leaves and everything is sharp because it’s dying, and the days get shorter but they’re not quite fully dark yet, not cold like winter is, just enough for a jacket. Maybe a hot drink, like cider or spiced milk.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sounded intrigued, as though he had never considered the benefits of fall as a season before. “What do you think  _ my _ favorite season is then?” he asked after a moment, depositing the bottle onto the floor and curling his legs up onto the couch, leaning heavily against Crowley, wrapping both of his soft arms around a sharp lanky one, chin at Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley thought about it for a bit. It was exceedingly clear that winter was Aziraphale’s favorite season, no one waxed rhapsodic about the shittiest and coldest time of year unless they loved it, but he thought about what he might have assumed Aziraphale’s favorite season to be, if he had been asked before hearing the blond’s little speech. 

“Well, now that I know how much you apparently like winter, I’d say that; but I thought your favorite season might be spring actually. Everything fresh and new and there’s so much life everywhere. Seems like your kind of thing.” He shrugged defensively. 

“Go on, then. Sell me on it. What’s so great about spring?” 

“Uh… Well, there’s lots of baby animals around, and you like those. And, and things are blooming and stuff, I dunno if you have allergies or whatever but the air just gets absolutely  _ saturated _ with the smell of flowers and trees and new green things. And it rains, yeah, but it’s good rain, and you can almost feel the whole world waking up, like winter was just some long nap and now everything can start up again. Dunno.” He shrugged again. 

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, the sound vibrating directly to Crowley’s bones, burrowing down into his marrow. He shoved his free hand into the pocket of his jeans, surprised to find it not entirely empty. He pulled out the squashed papery thing he could feel at the bottom, delighted to find not a cigarette, but a joint. 

“Hey, Aziraphale, look what I found,” he singsonged, waggling the misshapen little thing in front of the blond’s face. 

“Oh! Yes, let’s.” Aziraphale was already standing up, making a beeline for his bed and the window, their usual perch for this. 

“Wait, wait, we gotta do gifts first, don’t wanna forget when I’m too high to think.”

“Oh, yes, right, gifts. Where did I…?” Aziraphale looked around the room, squinting against the dark. “Ah!” He dove under a tiny side-table and pulled out a thick, wide rectangle, wrapped in cheery plaid wrapping paper covered in little bells and “Merry Christmas!”s. 

“Mine first,” he said, unnecessarily, as he dumped the surprisingly heavy package into Crowley’s lap. Crowley lifted it, shook it and held it up to his ear to make Aziraphale laugh, though he knew it must be some kind of book. He had told Aziraphale he didn’t like reading, but the blond was so stubborn about the classics and– Crowley’s thoughts were pulled up short when he tore away the wrapping paper and saw the huge block print of the title.  _ The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy _ . His breath caught in his throat and he opened it, turned the first few full-color pages reverently. “How...?”

But Aziraphale was already babbling away, “I know you don’t like books and you’ve told me so a million times but I saw this and it made me think of you, because of… well you remember, when we had, um, had that picnic, out in the field, and you showed me some of the constellations? And you just seemed so  _ happy _ when you talked about them–” But Crowley wasn’t listening anymore, Aziraphale’s soft voice drowned out by the sudden roar inside his head. 

Aziraphale… remembered that. Had listened to Crowley’s high rambling about the stars and thought, “ _ I will remember this _ ,” because even back then he knew Crowley so well, could tell when he actually  _ cared _ about something, and wasn’t that a fucking thought. 

He’d always known how to get right inside the walls Crowley threw up around himself with his sunglasses and his leather jacket, had walked right in like Crowley had left a gate open for him, had seen through the motorcycle and reckless behavior, knew him more intimately than anyone else on the planet.  _ Shit.  _ That was a bit much to think about.

It couldn’t possibly be healthy, Crowley could recognize that much, but he just… didn’t have anyone else. He was functionally alone in the world, had made sure to be as uninviting a person as possible, harshly rebuffing anyone brave enough to try and befriend him. The only other living things that Crowley cared about were his plants, the little garden he had built into a sort of home around himself, that he used as a buffer against the world until Aziraphale had stumbled along into his life and got him all mixed up; made him soft and vulnerable and stupid. Crowley wanted to hate him for it, he really did. He wanted to hate that it felt like he had handed Aziraphale a very sharp knife, had pointed out all his soft squishy bits, and had known in his very soul that he wouldn’t even fight back if Aziraphale used it, could do nothing but trust him not to gut Crowley like a helpless animal. 

Making himself be so vulnerable felt fucking terrible, if he was honest, felt foreign and ugly and raw, offering up all his flaws for judgement, but Aziraphale had never been anything but welcoming and soft against him, had never poked at his weaknesses in cruelty, never pushed Crowley’s buttons on purpose, might be the only person on Earth who even knew where exactly those buttons were. He was absolutely  _ besotted _ with this boy.  _ Fuck _ . 

If something were to happen, or they broke up for whatever reason, Crowley wasn’t even sure what he would do with himself, the thought alone enough to send a bone-deep chill through him.  _ Best not to think about it. _ And when Aziraphale went off to college, well. He supposed they would cross that bridge when they came to it, together.  _ And not a moment sooner _ . He didn’t want to think about it, and why should he? It was good, so blissfully fucking good, how could he imagine that anything would go wrong?

That was his second mistake.

But he didn’t know it yet, was still busy luxuriating in the thought that Aziraphale had  _ listened _ to him, and had gotten him something Crowley might have never purchased for himself, might not have even realized he  _ wanted _ , until the blond had handed it over to him with those bright eyes, his trademark delighted wiggle. 

Crowley threw himself at Aziraphale, cutting off his words and pushing their mouths together, murmuring his thanks into that soft, warm space.  _ You are definitely not about to fucking cry right now because your boyfriend got you a thoughtful gift, come  _ ** _on_ ** ,  _ that’s just  _ ** _pathetic_ ** . 

He kissed Aziraphale until the feeling had settled, the sharp press of it sinking from behind his eyes and relaxing its grip around his throat, winding its way down to rest somewhere in the region of his heart. And that was alright, he was used to that by now, could withstand a thousand years of that familiar ache he felt around Aziraphale, if he had to. Would be glad to do it, even. 

“Lemme–” He pulled away, had to clear his throat, “Lemme grab yours, just gimme a second.” He turned around, weaving his way through the random assemblage of furniture he knew better than his own living room, towards the door, where he had deposited his jacket-wrapped gift hours ago. 

He had thought very carefully about what kind of gift he wanted to give Aziraphale. The blond was still a rich kid, used to the kind of extravagant luxuries Crowley couldn’t even  _ dream _ about, and Crowley barely had thirty dollars to his name. He knew he couldn’t just buy something, wouldn’t be able to afford the kinds of things Aziraphale deserved. So it had to be personal instead, a gift so stupidly sentimental that Crowley had refused to let himself imagine how Aziraphale might react to it, knew he would just freak himself out and then show up empty handed, and that wouldn't have done at all. 

“It’s a bit, well… I didn’t, uh, wrap it or anything, I hope you don’t mind, and if you don’t like it, I can always just take it back, no worries–”

Aziraphale reached out for it, ignoring Crowley’s desperate attempts to talk him into dismissing the gift before he’d even seen it. 

Crowley shoved the thing away from himself, deposited it in Aziraphale’s hands, watched him pull away the jacket with wide, terrified eyes, wanted to look away but needed to see how the blond would react. 

Aziraphale gasped when the verdant thing was exposed to the room, Crowley’s jacket slumping unceremoniously to the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. It was a squat little thing, wide green leaves and a black plastic pot; but it was also a piece of  _ Crowley _ , of his home, of the life he tried to surround himself with, the only thing that was his, that he had done himself, and he was giving it to Aziraphale, showing him in an abstract sort of way that he made Crowley  _ want to live _ , that he felt like  _ home _ , and he hoped Aziraphale would know, because there was not a chance in hell of Crowley admitting that out loud. 

“Is this...?” Aziraphale brushed his fingers over the leaves softly, as he had done when he had first seen it.

“It’s uh, it’s called a fiddle leaf fig, you can keep it in here, even, they don’t need that much, and you seemed to like it so much when–” he swallowed convulsively– “when you came over, that first time, and I thought you might–”

Aziraphale cut him off, eyes blazing and serious, gaze unwavering on Crowley’s face. 

“I love you.” 

He said it like it was a fact, like it was simple, like it wouldn’t make Crowley feel as though he’d been dropped off the edge of the Earth. And maybe it  _ was _ simple, for him. Maybe love was something that came easily to someone like Aziraphale, something natural and effortless, and Crowley nearly envied that. He  _ wished _ love was something that was accessible to him, wasn’t a miracle just for  _ happening _ at all. Aziraphale couldn’t have known that Crowley hadn’t heard those words directed towards him since his mother had left, couldn’t have known how he  _ ached _ for them; how sometimes, on especially bad nights, he would lie very very still and whisper them to himself, over and over, trying to get them right, trying to make them feel  _ real _ , trying to feel them for himself. 

But it didn’t matter, because Crowley’s love for Aziraphale had outstripped anything he’d thought himself capable of before, had grown until it nearly didn’t fit inside him anymore, until his affection bled out towards Aziraphale in a constant thrum that matched his heartbeat.  _ I love you I love you I Iove you _ .

He knew, he  _ knew _ , he must have, must have understood what Crowley meant to say with his gift, what he couldn’t say; and Aziraphale, brave enough for the both of them, had put it into words. 

Still, Crowley wasn’t prepared for it, not at all. He was frozen, thought dazedly that perhaps he should sit down because he wasn’t entirely sure where his legs were, at the moment. There was a ringing in his ears that he was fairly certain hadn’t been happening a minute ago, and oh, fuck, he had to say something, didn’t he, opened his mouth to reply but no words would come out, not even air managing to get through the block in his throat. He just stood there, gaping at Aziraphale like a complete idiot, for what felt like four consecutive eternities. 

_ He loves me, he loves me, he  _ ** _loves_ ** _ me, he loves  _ ** _me_ ** **.**

“Crowley? Are you alright? You don’t have to– you don’t have to say it back or anything I just wanted t–”

Crowley finally managed to unlock his throat, still couldn’t produce anything other than a dry squeak in response.  _ Crowley! You’ve loved this boy since you  _ ** _met_ ** _ him what the fuck are you doing? Say something, goddammit, you’re going to break his fucking heart! You idiot! _

“Honestly, Crowley, are you okay? Maybe you should sit down?” 

At that, Crowley’s knees decided they didn’t much feel like holding him upright anymore, and he buckled sideways, fortunately falling into a conveniently located armchair, instead of cracking his head open on the floor. 

He let out another dry squeak and Aziraphale rushed over to him, leaning over him in the chair and placing a hand on his forehead, as though checking for fever. 

“Sorry,” Crowley managed to whisper.

“What? No don’t apologize, what are you apologizing for?”

“Sorry,” he repeated, “just, uh, caught me by surprise, there.” He chuckled weakly. 

“I’ll say. You look like I knocked the wind right out of you.” 

_ You always do _ , Crowley thought, but didn’t say it, didn’t need to confuse Aziraphale any more than he already had with his histrionics. He was such a fucking baby, swooning like a Victorian maiden at being told his feelings were reciprocated.  _ Pathetic. _

After a moment, Aziraphale shifted back from him. 

“So, um. Did you still want to...” He trailed off, nodding towards Crowley’s pocket, where he had re-stowed the joint, pursing his lips in that prudish way he had, and it shook a weak laugh out of Crowley. 

“Yeah, sure,” he croaked, levered himself up and out of the armchair and tried to remind himself how to breathe like a normal human person as he walked over to Aziraphale’s bed.

They crawled up to the window, and Crowley lit the crumpled joint with shaking fingers, wasn’t sure if Aziraphale didn’t notice or if he was just too polite to comment. Probably the latter. Aziraphale and his  _ fucking _ manners. 

At least this would calm him down, familiar territory. Comfortable. They smoked out the window, close together, fingers and wrists brushing as they passed the little stub back and forth, releasing plumes of warm grey smoke into the night, catching snowflakes on their fingers, air bright and sharp against their faces. 

Aziraphale was very physically affectionate when he was high, Crowley had figured that one out very early, practically from the get-go. And that didn’t mean it was necessarily sexual or anything, though they had fucked high before. He just liked to  _ touch _ Crowley, any way he could, fingers skating over his skin and clothes, utterly consumed by the textures of the world and his desire to feel them. 

Sometimes it was more than that, and this, apparently, was one of those times. Crowley had barely closed the window before Aziraphale was in his lap, one arm slung around his neck to keep him close, the other tracing lines against his scalp, kissing him like it was new, like he had never tasted Crowley before and wanted nothing more than to gorge himself on it. 

And Crowley knew he’d never get over it, the way they fit together, like the first time his fingers had curled around the throttle of his bike, the bone-deep sense of  _ rightness _ to it, like it was  _ made _ for him, for his hands. Aziraphale felt that way, not like he fit into Crowley’s hands, but like they just sort of  _ clicked _ together, on a— Crowley had to roll his eyes at himself— metaphysical level. Like their souls matched, and he’d always thought the concept of soulmates was dumb, definitely just created by some industry as an excuse to sell off a false ideal of love for profit. But maybe there was something to it.  _ Sap _ , he couldn’t help but scold himself, winding his arms tighter around the blond and pressing them chest to chest. He could feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat this way, could feel the rhythm of it against his own, that same thrum,  _ you’re alive you’re alive you’re alive _ , and the longer he listened the more it started to sound like  _ I love you I love you I love you. _

Aziraphale pulled away, just enough for eye contact, their chests still pressed together. “Crowley.” 

“Yeah?” He let his hands wander, let them tug at Aziraphale’s hips and fit themselves up along his ribs, under his arms.

“I think I want to try it the other way.” 

_ What? _ Crowley couldn’t help the confused frown that creased his forehead. “The… other way?”

Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley was momentarily distracted by it. “You know, with you uh, on top.” 

Oh.  _ Ohh _ . “You know we don’t, uh, ever have to do it that way if you don’t want to, right?” 

“Yes, I know. I  _ want _ to.” He leaned back in, pressed their foreheads together, whispered his next words like the secret they were. “I want to  _ feel _ you inside me.”

Well Jesus fucking Christ, apparently Aziraphale had just made it his goal to kill Crowley today, but at least  _ this _ he had thought about (a  _ lot) _ , and he knew what he wanted here. 

He let out a loud breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the clamour in his head at those words, spoken  _ like that _ . “Christ, you can’t just  _ say _ things like that.” 

He paused, got his thoughts in order. “Okay. Yes. Yes, we can definitely do that—“ Aziraphale started trying to wiggle out of his lap, but he held him still, “but not today.” Aziraphale’s face fell, those puppy-dog eyes making an Oscar-worthy appearance. 

“I want…” God, this was going to sound so  _ stupid _ , so mushy and romantic; he had to get it out before he lost his nerve, “I want it to be special. For you. I want to… to make it perfect.” Fuck, that had sounded better in his head. He ducked down, buried his face against Aziraphale’s chest, embarrassed. 

“Oh.” 

It was quiet for a moment, Aziraphale rubbing his hands up and down the length of Crowley’s back, under his suit jacket. 

“I think I’d like that.” There was a smile in his voice, and Crowley risked tilting his head up to look at him. 

“Yeah?” Those stupid fucking earnest blue eyes would be the death of him, he was sure of it.

“Yeah.” Aziraphale leaned back in, kissed him so softly that Crowley had to squeeze his own eyes shut until he saw stars, because his chest  _ ached _ where it was pressed against Aziraphale’s, and he never wanted to let go, never wanted to leave this exact second. 

But Aziraphale had  _ plans, _ the horny bastard, and he broke their kiss to wiggle his way downwards, pulling Crowley’s hips forward so he could lay back on the bed, hands hungry and urgent at his belt. 

He pulled it open, tugging harshly at the button and zip of Crowley’s jeans, eyes alight and fixed between his legs, the very tip of his tongue peeking out as he concentrated on reaching his goal. 

The first time Aziraphale had taken him into his mouth, the first time he had put his mouth on  _ anyone _ that way, he had been so nervous, shaking fingers and wide eyes. Crowley had reassured him over and over that he really didn’t have to, it wasn’t that important, but Aziraphale was determined. He had kissed and tongued his way around the shaft for a long while, afraid to try and fit it into his mouth. 

At Crowley’s gentle encouragement, he had sealed his lips around the head and sucked softly, eyes up to see Crowley’s reaction, a rumbling groan spurring him on to suck harder, fit just a tiny bit more of Crowley into his mouth. He got stuck about two-thirds of the way down, refused to go any further, terrified he would choke on it. 

But now… the speed with which Aziraphale had overcome his nerves when it came to this particular act was stunning, and frankly a bit disturbing. He was  _ ravenous _ for Crowley’s cock, would swallow it down whenever it pleased him, which was often, and Crowley certainly wasn’t complaining, but  _ fuck _ it was a lot to have someone who loved to taste, to  _ savour _ all manner of comestible delicacies so carefully and reverently drooling and humming around him. 

That seemed to be what he was going for tonight, so Crowley helped push down his trousers, tearing his jacket off and pulling his shirt over his head, heedless of the protesting buttons, spreading his legs obediently so that Aziraphale could settle between them, licking his lips and looking unbelievably hungry. Crowley had to look away to compose himself, missed Aziraphale’s mischievous little grin as he brought his mouth down, and down, and  _ down _ , and Crowley couldn’t help the noisy exclamation of surprise he let out at Aziraphale’s mouth  _ there _ . 

They’d never done  _ that _ before, and only one of Crowley’s previous partners had even  _ suggested _ it to him in the past. And they’d never even gotten around to trying it.

But Aziraphale had gone straight for it, buried his face between Crowley’s legs and pressed a kiss to the closed bud of his opening, nose tucked up under his sac, and Crowley could feel the brush of his cheeks against the sensitive insides of his crease, barely managed to stop himself from jackknifing off the bed in surprise. Aziraphale took his aborted jerk as encouragement, fingers digging into the give of his rear, tucking his thumbs in alongside his cheeks and pulling Crowley open, tentatively swiping his tongue out in a soft lick against the sensitive flesh. 

“Oh, ffff-!“ He was shouting. Was he shouting? He had to be quiet, forced himself to bring a hand up to his mouth so he could bite down savagely on a knuckle, that twinge of pain letting him focus back on the world outside of Aziraphale’s mouth, no small feat, considering where that mouth currently was. 

“Where the  _ fuck _ did you learn about this, ang-mmMf!” He had barely managed to muffle himself in time, and his chest was already heaving, back arching uncontrollably as he bit down.

Aziraphale pulled back with a sucking kiss against his hole. “Oh, you know. Just around.” And he dropped back down, laved his tongue in broad, flat strokes across the whole of him, then pointed it and pushed around his center curiously, testing the give of the flesh.

“Did you fucking— did you fucking  _ read _ about this?” He was breathless, wanted to sound outraged, just sounded aroused. Oh well. 

Aziraphale pulled back a bit, just enough that Crowley could see him blush. 

“Oh Christ.” He dropped his head back against the white fluff of the bed, a breathless laugh punching out of him as he clutched at the sheets with the hand that was not still cautiously held up to his mouth, ready for him to bite and muffle himself if ( _ when _ ) necessary. 

Aziraphale pressed in again, close enough for Crowley to feel the damp puff of his breath against the most intimate, private part of him. “Do you like it?” 

“Are you  _ joking _ ? Don’t  _ stop _ .” Crowley couldn’t stop shifting his knees, his hands, grabbing at nothing and everything, oh fuck it was so good, why had they never done this before? 

Aziraphale huffed a laugh against him, a very strange sensation that Crowley had certainly never felt before, and got back to it, tongue circling and pushing patiently. The wet pressure of it, the soft sucking kisses Aziraphale was pressing against him had his thighs jerking uncontrollably, his hips fighting against Aziraphale’s hold on him, unsure whether to press into or away from the strange, intense feeling.

Aziraphale licked at him like he wanted to saturate his tongue with the flavor; wide flat strokes and urgent pointed presses. He pulled to the side a moment, catching his breath, biting softly at the tender insides of Crowley’s thighs, just at the crease where they met his torso, and Crowley had to bite his knuckles again to stop himself from crying out at the thought of Aziraphale leaving him with bruises there, bruises no one else would ever see, secret and dark and tender, just for them. 

Aziraphale didn’t let up, managed to loosen Crowley enough to actually get his tongue  _ inside _ , and what the  _ fuck _ Crowley was going to pass out if he kept that up, no  _ really _ , and then Aziraphale had to go and bring one of his hands up and around, so carefully dragging just the very tips of his fingers along the shaft of Crowley’s cock, where it was twitching and pulsing out beads of precome against his stomach, and that apparently was enough, and Crowley was coming with a poorly muffled cry, tasting blood on his knuckles as he bit through the skin, thighs shaking and stomach pulled tight as Aziraphale kept his tongue working, flickering around the rim as it clenched and released rhythmically, matching the quiet noises Crowley was still making with each pulse, soft and wrecked. 

Crowley slumped boneless to the bed, legs dropping open even further, heels sliding along the sheets, one hand vaguely pushing at Aziraphale’s head, oversensitive in an entirely new way.

“Fuck.” Eloquence, not his strong point right now. “Aziraphale.” He had to stop again. “That was… Jesus Christ I don’t even think I can explain to you how good that was.” 

Aziraphale made a pleased little humming noise, sliding himself up along Crowley’s side, one arm thrown around his waist, pressing little kisses against his jaw as he ground himself against Crowley’s hip. He made a frustrated noise, pulled at his own clothes until they were both naked, and Crowley was pretty sure he could die happy, just like this. 

“Just, gimme a second and I can,” Crowley waved an arm vaguely towards Aziraphale’s lower half. 

“No, no, don’t bother, I want... like this.” Aziraphale demurred, punctuating his statement with an emphatic roll of his hips. “I want to keep touching you.” 

“At least let me…” Crowley wiggled a hand down between them, his grip on Aziraphale awkward, but probably better than whatever friction his hip had been providing. 

Aziraphale kept himself wrapped around Crowley, as much skin to skin contact as possible given that Crowley was on his back and Aziraphale was pressed up against his side, panting against his neck and offering up soft bites and kisses of appreciation as Crowley’s hand worked over him. 

Crowley tightened his grip and tilted himself towards Aziraphale, rolled up onto his side, pressed their lips together in a weak approximation of a kiss, artless and breathy and fucking  _ perfect _ . He pulled back and made a face when he realized he could taste himself on Aziraphale’s tongue, musky and bitter, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh at that, interrupting himself halfway through with moan as his hips flexed forward, fucking himself into Crowley’s hand. 

He came softly, quietly, the needy rocking of his hips slowing as Crowley worked him gently through it, getting up to grab the tissues Aziraphale had learned to keep near his bed, throwing on his boxers and a rare t-shirt of Aziraphale’s that he borrowed whenever he slept over, grabbing one for Aziraphale as well, still laid out on the bed like some kind of decadent courtesan, waiting patiently for the attention of a lover. Crowley crawled back onto the bed, cleaning Aziraphale off and offering him the t-shirt before settling back down, lifting an arm so Aziraphale could worm his way in close, could get his hand up under Crowley’s shirt and stroke gentle circles into the skin of his chest. 

He started to hum, some stupidly cheery Christmas tune, and Crowley felt overwhelming fondness settling over him like a physical weight, like a thick wool blanket, and before he knew it, his eyes were sliding closed, breaths slowing into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic parental abuse!

Crowley woke to the soft early greyness of winter dawn, let his mind float a while in half-awake bliss. It took a moment for him to register his surroundings, the soft sleeping body he had curled himself around, pressed back to chest and hips to knees together, blond curls tickling his nose. He nuzzled into them, pressed a soft kiss to the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, felt him stir into wakefulness. 

“Cro’ly?” A soft susurration of sound, sleep-slurred and so lovely Crowley immediately wanted nothing more than to hear it every single morning for the rest of his life. 

“Yeah.” His voice was rough with sleep, a low grumble against Aziraphale’s back, more vibration than speech. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep last night. I should probably go before everybody wakes up,” Crowley answered, burrowing in deeper against the blond in his arms, already dreading having to leave the warmth of the bed and dig around for his clothing.

“Mmm.” Aziraphale rolled over to face him, eyes barely slitted open. “Don’ go.” 

“I have to. It’s Christmas, you’ve gotta, you know, spend it with your family, do all those Christmas-y things families do.” 

“‘D rather just stay here with you. Don’ care about Christmas.” He pouted, eyes slipping closed again, hands coming up to twist fingers in Crowley’s shirt, clinging to him in silent entreaty not to leave. Crowley wanted nothing more than to appease him, but he had no idea what kind of trouble Aziraphale would get into if one of his siblings figured out Crowley had stayed the night now that he’d come out to them, even if they’d mostly just been sleeping. 

Crowley sighed and untangled Aziraphale’s hand from the shirt, sliding backwards on the bed. Aziraphale made a noise of protest, wriggled forward to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s lips. 

“Love you.” Aziraphale’s eyes were still closed. He looked to be most of the way back to sleep, and Crowley couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in his chest, seeing Aziraphale like this, soft and unguarded and sleepy.  _ He loves me. _

He pulled off the borrowed t-shirt, tossed it vaguely towards the bed and let a soft, sappy smile creep onto his face when Aziraphale reached for it, eyes still closed, pulling it up against his face before settling back into his blankets. 

Crowley collected his jeans, shirt, jacket, and Aziraphale’s gift, throwing on his winter coat and carefully creeping through the echoing white halls, fingers crossed that he wouldn’t run into anyone and have to deal with their  _ assumptions _ , especially not Sandalphon or Gabriel. He managed to make it all the way to the front door before he heard a throat clearing pointedly from atop the stairs.  _ Shit. _

“You’re still here.” It wasn’t a question, but it didn’t sound too much like an accusation either, and Crowley turned around to face the voice, sighing silently in relief when he recognized Uriel, who at least had met him before last night’s disaster of a dinner and had already seemed to know about his relationship with Aziraphale. “You should be more careful, you know. This family wouldn’t hesitate to tear you apart if they knew the kinds of things you’ve tempted Aziraphale into.” 

Crowley could feel his face reddening, barely managed to stutter out a few useless half-syllables of protest, thoughts of Aziraphale’s tongue and the noises Crowley had made because of it just last night echoing around his head. 

“I won’t tell, but only because it’s Christmas. And in the future, I’d advise you to stay away from my little brother,  _ Anthony _ .” Crowley suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the wintry weather outside. He’d certainly never told any of Aziraphale’s family his given first name, and there was no reason for Aziraphale to have mentioned it, which meant that Uriel had gone digging, and who knows what else they’d managed to find. 

“We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, now, would we?” A cold rush of fear prickled through Crowley at the threat, and he clutched at the book in his hands to stop himself from running back to Aziraphale’s room to check that he was okay, to make sure nothing had happened or would happen to him, not as long as Crowley was there. 

“Y-yeah. Sure. Th- uh, thanks for the, um, the dinner.” Crowley stuttered out, blindly opening the door and stumbling outside. It clicked shut behind him a bit ominously and he took a few minutes to just breathe, let the adrenaline of getting caught simmer down, the heat of his body creating a thick cloud in front of him in the freezing morning air. 

It had stopped snowing some time in the night, but it was still early enough that the fresh blanket of it was pristine, glittering white-grey even in the semi-dark of dawn, the overcast sky reaching down to the horizon and matching the slick, icy sheet of it well enough to create the illusion of a curved continuum between the snow-thick Earth and the grey wash of the sky, the endless stretch of them both brought close and nearly tangible, tucked in tight around the world like a thick grey blanket. 

It was bitterly cold, and Crowley relished it, sweeping the accumulated snow off his bike and slowly pulling out into the still-uncleared street, cautious of ice and slush, rolling at a near glacial pace towards home and just appreciating his surroundings, each sense attuned to a different element of the cold: the fresh bite of the air across his skin and tongue, sharp in his nose— the nothing-smell of winter, the thick feeling of absolute silence pressing against his ears, the world muffled and heavy, careful and quiet and still. He felt like he might really be the only person in the world, like he could lay claim to any place he went, everything fresh and new under its dusting of white.

He thought of Aziraphale, still curled up in his bed, thought of families and warnings and omens and threats, shook his head to clear it. It would be fine, Aziraphale would be fine. It was his own family, wasn’t it? They wouldn’t hurt him.  _ Would they? _ Aziraphale had never given him any sort of indication they would go for the kind of thing Crowley’s father did, but Uriel’s words felt… heavy. Gabriel had said they were going to discuss Aziraphale coming out “ _ later _ ,” and what better time than Christmas morning, everyone house-bound and all stuck together in one room? 

Crowley’s fingers tightened over the handlebars of his bike, numb digits aching under the strain. There was no use thinking about it, it wasn’t as though there was anything he could do, so he pushed the thoughts aside. He forced himself to relax, to pull in a deep breath of the freezing morning air, let it fill him until his whole chest ached with it, released it in a vague cloud that stretched out behind him as he drove, suspended above the snowy road in a soft smear of breath. 

He thought of the warm feeling he got around Aziraphale instead, the heavy press of thick blankets. He thought of cocoons and metamorphosis and he realized that maybe Aziraphale was right, maybe winter was the best part of the year, the universal reset button, like a tiny apocalypse that happened with such regularity it became common-place, a bore. But Crowley felt it like new, today, like he had broken out of a thick glass case and had stumbled out into an uncontaminated world, raw like an exposed nerve, every sensation new and nearly too much, over-bright and saturated with the pure blazing white of winter. It was terrifying. 

Crowley was still floating on this high when he pulled up to his house, the grey-brown of it hideous against the clean white of the snow, a heavy line splitting the roof, snowfall collected in its slumped middle. Crowley knew he’d probably have to clamber up there and shovel it off later, lest the roof cave in under the uneven weight of it, but for now it looked beautiful, looked like spilled milk catching in the grout between tiles, a thick spread of white contained in pre-ordained lines, straight and fine as cracks in a sidewalk.

He pushed open the door, mind still lost in thoughts of snow, thoughts of Aziraphale and the soft smothering feeling of winter. He didn’t register the warmth that greeted him as he stepped inside, didn’t consider how the wood stove could have been refilled while he was gone. 

He had just finished tucking Aziraphale’s gift behind a few plants when he realized his father was sitting on the sofa, a mug at his elbow where he had knocked a succulent out of the way and to the floor, chipped porcelain probably filled with an irish coffee (sans coffee), feet stretched out in front of him and an angry look on his face, not that he ever looked any other way, to Crowley. 

“An’ where ‘ave you been, hm?” Crowley couldn’t tell if his slurring was the result of an early start this morning, or if he was still drunk from whatever he had gotten up to last night. 

“Out.” He shrugged. Non-committal, an answer that wasn’t really an answer, uttered without a shred of sarcasm. That would be much too dangerous. 

“‘S that  _ my _ jacket?” Crowley looked down at himself, at his wrinkled shirt and the grey suit-jacket he was still wearing under his winter coat, terror spiking through him as he considered the consequences of borrowing his father’s clothes without asking. He’d never done it before, didn’t know what he could expect as punishment, a thought that made his stomach turn over, the pleasant feeling he had had while driving home dissipating in an instant.

“You w’re with that boy, weren’t you, that little blond one you brought ‘round here that once, I remember. Don’ think I haven’t heard about you two hangin’ ‘round together. You think I’m an idiot?” It wasn’t really a question, but Crowley still wasn’t sure if he was meant to respond. Should he lie? Tell his father that no, he’d been somewhere else, with other people? But where else would he have been? His mind raced, precious seconds ticking by as he tried to come up with some sort of answer. 

“You an’ that little faggot, Ezra-whatever, I knew he couldn’t be trusted, shoulda told ‘im off the moment I met ‘im. Turning my son queer.” 

Crowley opened his mouth to argue that, then snapped it shut with a click, thinking better of it. He swallowed, said nothing.

“An’ here I was, waitin’ for my _ son _ to come home, on  _ Christmas Eve _ , but no, the ungrateful little shit is off with some goddamn shirt-lifter, doing who-knows-what kind of faggotry.” Crowley was almost surprised at his father’s vocabulary. He’d never heard him say anything so blatantly homophobic before, though Crowley supposed he’d never had the opportunity. Aziraphale was the first person he’d ever met from Crowley’s life, and clearly that had been a fucking mistake. 

“I get the feelin’ you don’t  _ appreciate _ all the shit I do for you, Anthony.” He picked up the mug, knocked back a swallow. “Think you might need some  _ reminding _ of who’s in charge around here, hm?” He narrowed his eyes, went to heave himself up out of the couch.

Crowley shifted his feet apart subtly, lowering his center of gravity, shoulders loose and hands relaxed at his sides. 

“C’mere,” it wasn’t a suggestion, and Crowley knew better than to refuse, knew whatever punishment he was due would be two-fold if he resisted at all. 

He walked carefully over, angling himself in such a way that he might be able to dodge a swing, if that was what his father went for first. But apparently the man had other ideas, reaching out with a thick, grubby hand and seizing Crowley by the hair, yanking his head down and to the side so he could waft his rank whiskey breath over Crowley’s face, throwing him off balance and growling, “I think you need to start showin’ me a little more  _ respect _ around here.” He threw Crowley down to the floor with the hand in his hair, stepped closer when he instinctively tried to scramble up, all-too-familiar with what this position meant for him. 

The first kick wasn’t too hard, just a nudge, really, the heel of his father’s boot knocking him down from where he’d managed to scramble up to his knees, throwing him over onto his side. Crowley curled away in anticipation, was not surprised when the next blow carried significantly more weight, the toe of his father’s boot jabbing at his kidneys, his ribs. Crowley did nothing to defend himself, didn’t have the energy to fight back, just curled himself into a ball on the floor, arms up around his head, waited for it to be over. 

After a minute or so of sharp, painful jabs, there was a sickening crunch, one of Crowley’s ribs cracking under the onslaught, a white hot spike of pain racing around to his spine, forcing a scream out of his mouth against his will. It seemed to please his father, who gave one last half-hearted kick, aimed at the back of his head, and ambled away towards the kitchen. Crowley didn’t move, couldn't move, couldn’t do anything but concentrate on breathing against the pain gripping him like a vice.

“If I ever hear you’re still hanging around that fairy....” He didn’t finish his threat, didn’t have to, knew as well as Crowley did what would happen to Aziraphale should they ever cross paths again. He meandered back into the living room from the kitchen as he added, “You better hope I never see that little faggot again.” 

Crowley was still curled up on the floor, breathing shallowly, trying to focus enough to get himself away, but the pain in his side was like a brand, consuming him until all he could think about was the sharp, radiating ache of it, the unnatural click of bone he would’ve sworn he could feel with each breath he took. 

“Get up.” Crowley’s father approached him, pulling his foot back again in a threat, and Crowley found himself scrambling away, desperate enough to ignore the bright flare of pain it caused. He threw himself out onto the icy concrete of the porch, the cold a burning sting in his lungs and against his broken rib, the ache spreading through his whole body until he felt like nothing so much as a punching bag, bruised and battered and useless. 

“And don’t come back until you’ve straightened out, ya hear?” The door slammed, and Crowley could hear his father struggle for a moment before the ancient, rusty deadbolt slid across.  _ Well fuck. _

Where could he go now? It was fucking _Christmas_, and damn early too. Nothing was open, he couldn’t very well go back to Aziraphale’s, and it was too cold to be outside for very long. His rib screamed at him, and he considered driving to an emergency room. Those were always open, right? But they would ask _questions_, and what would he tell them? He didn’t know how he might explain away his cracked rib and the dark bruises blooming over his spine and sides, not unless he told them he’d gotten into a fight, but then they might get the _police_ involved and that was definitely the last thing he needed. There was never anything they could do for rib fractures anyway, just told you to stay still and take some painkillers. _Useless_.

He ended up driving in circles through town, searching desperately for somewhere that was open, somewhere he could go to warm himself up and think for a little bit, figure out what he was going to do with the fucking mess his life had suddenly become. On his third pass down the main street, he finally had to admit that the only open building in the whole fucking town was the church. 

Crowley was not a big fan of churches. He didn’t have anything specifically against them, per se, but they definitely were not his favorite places. They were just so eternally quiet, and oppressive, and there was so much  _ expectation _ around going into a church, expectation of faith and prayer and all that other shit Crowley had given up on years and years ago. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had genuinely prayed, the last time he had really believed that anyone might be up there listening. But his hands were starting to go numb, and his chest ached, and he had nowhere else to go. 

It was empty, at least, long rows of pews stretching out on either side of the aisle, the empty altar so innocuous under a crucified Jesus. Crowley had always found that a little distasteful, showing off the strung up body of a martyr everywhere as if guilt was meant to be the driving force behind religion. Which, he supposed it was, for some people. 

It had been like that for his parents, he knew. Vaguely remembered the seemingly-endless hours he’d been forced to sit still and quiet on these hard wooden benches, itching at his clothes, the terrible woollen scratch of his Sunday best. Remembered how angry his father always seemed to be whenever they went, his derision for all the rituals, the pomp and circumstance; remembered the soft look on his mother’s face when she prayed. They weren’t good memories, but they weren’t really bad ones either. 

He sat in the back of the church, on the far side, nearly hidden next to a huge stone pillar that supported the impossibly high ceiling of the nave, after a moment curling up on the bench, one arm tucked under his head as a pillow, the other idly scratching at the wood grain of the pew below him, trying to breathe normally despite the persistent ache of his side. 

He had to talk to Aziraphale. Had to tell him what had happened, explain the situation, and then they could figure something out. They could still fix this. It wasn’t all completely fucked, right? 

Maybe they could run away together, just leave this whole shitty place behind and make their own way in the world. But even as the thought formed, he knew he could never ask Aziraphale to do that, couldn’t make him give up his life of luxury and privilege, give up the chance to go to college just for Crowley; Crowley who could offer him nothing but a life full of dead-ends and bad decisions. 

Maybe they could just be more careful, spend less time together and then his father would never know, and Aziraphale’s family would think they had broken up and were just friends again. But the thought of rationing his time with Aziraphale, both of them fearful of retribution, constantly waiting for some punishment of unknown proportions, made him nauseous. He couldn’t do that to him. Wouldn’t. 

The longer he thought about it, the more sure he became that there was only one option, only one choice he could make that wouldn’t put Aziraphale’s life or future at risk. They had to break up. Really, actually break up, and he had to make Aziraphale  _ hate _ him, had to make sure they couldn’t even be friends. 

Crowley wasn’t much one for self-sacrifice, not in the pure, selfless way it was intended; but for Aziraphale, he would have done anything. Anything at all. He would've doused himself in gasoline and lit a match if Aziraphale needed him to, would’ve walked barefoot across a room full of broken glass, if that was what it took for Aziraphale to be happy, to be safe. 

But this was something else. This would _hurt_. A lot. And he would have to lie. He would have to look Aziraphale in the eyes and lie to his face, would have to make him _believe_ that lie enough to save him. And Crowley would have to be strong enough to hold on to that lie, would have to half-believe it himself. 

If what Aziraphale needed was for Crowley to break his own heart, then he would. 

And he knew that this would hurt Aziraphale, that he might be just as heartbroken as Crowley in the beginning, but he had to believe that the blond would be able to move on, that eventually he would realize that Crowley had just been holding him back, had made both of their lives exponentially more complicated. And Crowley would have to watch it happen, would have no choice but to bear witness to Aziraphale forgetting him,  _ moving on _ from him in a way he didn’t think he’d ever be able to do himself. It was fine. 

He didn’t know how long he lay in the church, planning and practicing and trying again and again and again to think of every way this could possibly go, to plan for anything that Aziraphale might say to him. And he cried, let himself get all his stupid emotions about this out of the way in advance, drained himself so that he could be hard and cold as stone when the time came, could get through it without cracking, without revealing the soft bleeding center of himself that he was going to try so hard to pretend didn’t exist. 

It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, didn’t matter that he wanted nothing more than to curl up in Aziraphale’s arms and let himself be comforted, let Aziraphale reassure him that it would all work out, that it would be fine. Crowley needed to protect him, and no matter how much it felt like it would kill him to do this, he had to believe it was for the best, that this would offer Aziraphale some level of safety, some protection from both their families. That was all that mattered, Aziraphale being safe. 

\--- --- ---

He waited until dark had fallen, until he was sure Aziraphale would be finished with dinner and whatever else his family did for Christmas, would almost certainly be in his room, reading or getting ready for bed. 

He drove himself to Aziraphale’s house, still cautious of the frozen slick the streets had iced into, managed to get himself over the iron gate with a bit of luck and some painful wriggling, trekking across the white-dressed lawn to Aziraphale’s window, digging in the snow for an appropriate pebble to throw against it and get his attention. 

The window was thrown open immediately after his first attempt, Aziraphale’s blond head poking out with an excited, “Crowley? Is that you?” 

“Hey angel, can I come up?” He almost hoped that Aziraphale would say no, that he would be able to put off the excruciating conversation he’d planned down to the second, could pretend everything was fine for just one more night. But his rib was a constant bright ache along his side, and Crowley couldn’t ignore it, a reminder of his father’s threats towards Aziraphale. 

“Of course!” Aziraphale sounded so  _ happy _ , so  _ excited _ to see Crowley and it wasn’t  _ fair _ , he hadn’t asked for any of this, didn’t  _ want _ to break his own heart, but he’d run out of options. Run out of time. 

It took a bit of maneuvering, Crowley’s rib protesting each movement as he hauled himself over the window frame, mind heavy with the weight of what he was about to do, the pain he knew he was about to inflict on Aziraphale, love of his  _ fucking _ life. 

He’d barely managed to get through the window and off the bed before Aziraphale was pressing them together, arms coming up in a hug that sparked viciously against his rib, gripping tight. Crowley knew that there was no way Aziraphale knew what was about to happen; he was just being affectionate, the same as he always was, and Crowley was trying so hard to memorize every second of it, to impress upon his very cells the feeling of Aziraphale wrapped so tightly around him, holding him close, like something precious and worthy, like he wasn’t a disappointment to every person he had ever met, and it  _ hurt _ , hurt against his ribs and deeper inside: in his stupid,  _ useless _ fucking heart.

He let the hug go on, refused to let go of Aziraphale, despite the screaming of his bruised sides and back. He wanted to feel it;  _ deserved _ to feel it, because it felt like guilt, felt like  _ I love you I love you I love you _ being tapped out in rhythm against his chest, and Crowley had to pretend he didn’t feel the same, that his heart didn’t race for the boy he was clutching against himself.  _ Why did it have to  _ ** _hurt_ ** _ so fucking much? _

Crowley had thought he already knew how bad it could feel to love somebody. Thought the worst kind of love was a love of obligation, a love borne of necessity and weakness. But he’d been so, so wrong. This was worse.  _ Infinitely _ worse. He felt like nothing, felt tiny and insignificant under the crushing weight of something so much  _ bigger _ than himself, despair hanging over his head already, just waiting to come crashing down around his ears.

“Aziraphale,” he started, hesitantly, “I think… we should talk.” 

“Okay. What did you want to talk about?” Aziraphale went to pull back, but Crowley clutched him close. 

“I think we shouldn’t see each other. Any more.” 

“What?” Aziraphale didn’t sound worried, just sounded confused, like he thought this was another one of Crowley’s jokes that he didn’t quite understand, and Crowley could  _ feel _ his heart dying in chest, would’ve sworn to it under oath. 

“We can’t—” he swallowed, throat dry and clicking “— we shouldn’t be together.” He cleared his throat, unable to speak around the tight feeling trying to choke him into silence. “Any more,” he repeated. He just had to follow the script _ .  _ If he let himself be  _ weak _ , if he gave up now, he would never be able to forgive himself the cowardice. He was dangerous for Aziraphale.  _ He _ was the problem, and he had to cut himself away before he caused any more damage.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sounded worried now, “What are you talking about? If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, ang—“ he stopped. Calling Aziraphale “angel” now would be too much, too cruel. Crowley wouldn’t use that nickname against him like that, wouldn’t use it when it was couched in words designed to hurt him. He refused to betray Aziraphale that way, even though he knew it didn’t even matter, that it would only be one tiny betrayal tucked into a much larger, much harsher one, but he couldn’t stand for the only endearment he had for Aziraphale to be twisted that way, to be sour and ugly and cruel. 

“Aziraphale. We can’t… we can’t keep doing this.” Crowley’s arms tightened, selfishly seeking comfort even as he tore them apart. “We should… we should…” his throat closed completely, and his next words were nearly inaudible, “break up.” 

But Aziraphale heard him just fine, Crowley could tell by the tension that had suddenly gripped his body.  _ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.  _

“Crowley. What are you saying.” They weren’t questions, and there was a wild, desperate edge creeping into Aziraphale’s voice, tugging sharply at Crowley’s resolve.

“I’m saying that we gotta break up. It’s been fun and all; but it’s time to face facts. We were never gonna last, you knew that.” Crowley was getting into character, the script he had practiced over and over just  _ there _ , endless repetitions making it automatic in his panic-stricken brain.

Crowley was glad he still couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, tucked over his shoulder as it was, their arms still wrapped tight around each other; Crowley unable,  _ unwilling _ , to be the first to let go.

But Aziraphale was having none of it, pushed Crowley back hard so he could look at him, blue eyes flickering over Crowley’s face as though looking for some hint, some crack in the picture that would tell him this was just some terrible prank, or a dream, that it wasn’t  _ real _ , and Crowley was grateful that he had had so many years of practice in policing his face, grateful that a hard, blank expression had been his standard for nearly half his life, grateful that it still rested more easily over his features than a smile.

“I don’t understand. Why would you–? Why are you doing this? Did something happen? Is this because I…? Please, Crowley. Just  _ tell  _ me.” And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. But he knew Aziraphale would just try to talk him out of it, and they’d end up exactly as they already were, Aziraphale in danger because Crowley’s life was such an unmitigated disaster that it was pulling the blond down with him. 

“I’m sorry I told you I love you, alright? We can… we can just go back to how it was before, I don’t care, just please,  _ please _ don’t do this. Don’t leave me.” Aziraphale begged, voice cracking with fear, and  _ it just wasn’t fucking fair, was it? _ Wasn’t fair that Aziraphale had come to that conclusion unprompted, that he believed he’d scared Crowley off by admitting that he loved him. 

“No. We can’t go back to how it was before, because it wasn’t  _ real _ . None of it was. You knew I’d never love you, couldn’t love you. I can’t love anyone.” There was the root of it, the lie he’d had to sell himself on, out in the open now and so incredibly,  _ clearly _ false that Crowley feared for a moment that Aziraphale would call him on it. 

“None of this,” he gestured between them, “meant anything to me. It...  _ you _ were just a way to pass the time before graduation, just a— just a fling.” Crowley could hear his own voice as though it was coming from somewhere else, somewhere very far away, and it sounded like the voice of a stranger. To throw Aziraphale’s own words back at him like that, try and convince him that this hideous, terrible lie was true, had always been true, and Aziraphale just hadn’t seen it, it  _ hurt _ . 

“No. No, I don’t believe you. You’re lying. Please, you can’t do this. My family  _ hates  _ me now, they keep telling me I’m going to Hell and you said—“ Aziraphale’s voice cracked and tears started to spill over onto his cheeks, thick wet lines running down under his chin and dripping onto his shirt, “—You said you wouldn’t leave me. That you’d still be here if…” his voice cut out, tears falling so quickly now they flowed over before he could even blink against them, staining the collar of his shirt— like he was leaking, tears salty as blood, hot and quick and terrible. And it  _ felt _ like watching him bleed out, made Crowley glad he’d done all his crying over this already, because even still the sight prickled at his eyes, the back of his throat, and if he hadn’t been so exhausted, he knew he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from breaking down, giving up this whole thing. 

“I never said that.” Another lie, and his voice wasn’t as rock-solid as he wanted it to be, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, was too busy pleading with his entire body for Crowley to take it all back. 

“But… but I  _ know _ you, you wouldn’t…” Crowley could hear the sharp slivers of doubt in Aziraphale’s voice, knew he had to take the opportunity, had to twist the knife just a little deeper, finish this so he could  _ leave _ , so he could go somewhere, anywhere, just get  _ away _ from this. And maybe,  _ just maybe _ , if he went fast enough, he might even be able to get away from himself. 

“Do you, really? What do you  _ really _ know about me? How do you know I haven’t been lying to you this whole time? You don’t know  _ anything _ about my life. You’ve barely even seen where I  _ live _ .” And that wasn’t fair, he knew it wasn’t fair, but he needed Aziraphale to  _ hate _ him, needed him to shut Crowley out and never let him back in. 

“It’s been fun, Aziraphale. Really, it has, but it was just a game.” He forced himself to make eye contact, expression hard and cruel, and it felt like he was wearing his father’s face, felt like he was torturing an innocent animal for no reason other than to hear it scream.

“No, no that’s… that’s not true. Crowley, don’t—“

“I don’t love you. I could never love you.” He said it quickly, spit it out like it might burn his tongue, and it felt like the worst lie he had ever told, like swallowing glass, or trying to smother a fire with his bare hands.

“Please, Crowley. Don’t do this.  _ Please _ , I don’t understand.” He sounded so small, eyebrows pushed together and up, fucking angelic-looking even with tears streaking down his cheeks.

Crowley didn’t want to look at him anymore, hated seeing that soft, beloved face crumple in pain. Even pity would have been better than this, this wide-eyed hurt look on the blond’s face, like Crowley had just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real, or that his parents didn’t really love him and he was nothing but a disappointment. Like he had told Aziraphale his love was unrequited, that the unwavering flame of it in Crowley’s chest was nothing, meant nothing. It fucking  _ hurt _ . 

And Crowley had always thought lovesick was a dumb expression, but that was exactly how he felt, like he might actually be physically sick, right here on the floor of Aziraphale’s room, like he’d been run over by a fucking tank and it’d crushed him completely flat, made him into roadkill to be scraped up and dumped on the side of the road. 

It didn’t hurt the way he had expected, the way he had prepared himself for. It wasn’t the same as the familiar ache of deep, purpling bruises, bleeding out under his skin, no. That feeling was  _ nothing _ compared the shredded mess of his heart, still so desperately pumping blood, leaking red and purple around his lungs, chest filling so quickly with the hot dark spill of it; until he couldn’t breathe, had no room left for air under the heavy press of it; until he was drowning in his own body. 

He was sure the blood would have been visible under his skin; if he’d pulled up his shirt, he would’ve seen the dark stripes of it peeking through the slats of his ribs, around the bruises his father had left, pressure against his sternum as though it might crack in two, a pain so different from the terrible ache of his broken rib; pain that threatened to leave him a pulsing, bloody mess for no one to clean but himself, like it always was, always would be, and he realized he’d have to get used to being alone again, the sharp ache of the thought worse than the dull, throbbing pain in his side, worse than putting out a cigarette against the tender flesh of his wrist; and whoever said that fucking stupid quote about it being better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all was full of  _ shit _ , he wasn’t even sure it would be possible for him to go back to his life Before-Aziraphale, and he knew that sounded dumb but he’d come along and fucking  _ changed _ everything. 

Crowley could feel the clear demarcation of their Before and After, and now the joy he had become so accustomed to feeling was leaching out of him, pulling all the color of the world with it, leaving everything grey and hard and cruel, and it wasn’t fair, he didn’t want this, had only ever asked for one fucking thing in his life, and now he had to cut it away from himself, excising the love he’d built into his heart like a cancer, like a malignant and hungry thing. It felt like stripping the skin from his bones and trying to pretend nothing was wrong; like forgetting himself and grabbing a pot of boiling water from the stove, hands dropping the thing before his brain could even think of the consequences, the splash of burns all along his front, the inescapable wet stick of the liquid as though his very clothes were trying to get into his skin, get away from the blistering heat of it. 

All Crowley wanted was to get away. And, he supposed, he didn’t have a reason to stay. Not anymore, at least. 

  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

Crowley clambered back onto the bed and threw himself out of Aziraphale’s window, landed hard in the snow, rib screaming from the impact, and the sudden agony of it froze him, made him retch violently over the snow, empty stomach seizing, just trying to get the pain  _ out _ , the involuntary contraction of his muscles only serving to make it worse. And he didn’t even care. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, he just had to get away, had to go  _ right this  _ ** _fucking_ ** _ second _ . 

He was breathing too fast, head spinning as panic flared bright and sharp in his chest, because what the  _ fuck  _ had he just done. What the  _ fuck _ had he  _ done _ ? 

He clambered over the wrought-iron fence none-too-carefully, and the sharp pain in his side he got for it felt right, felt like penance, was almost in the right spot to cover up the ache that he could feel growing inside him, the hungry black thing that had already started to eat away at him, that was clawing at his insides. He needed to get it  _ out _ . 

He raced through the silent, snowy streets, skidding around corners and throwing up slush behind him, careless and reckless and  _ where could he go? _ Home was right out, his dad would definitely still be hanging around and he just didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now, the gruff apologies and halfhearted offers of ice and painkillers, or dinner, maybe money; or the even worse alternative, the glassy eyes and snarling mouth, sharp words and sharper hands. Still drunk, still angry. 

There was still fucking  _ nothing _ open, god _ damn _ Christmas. Crowley decided then and there that he hated the holiday, hated the winter, hated Aziraphale. Hated himself. 

He decided he’d make his way back to the church. Maybe he could hide out there and get some sleep, that irresistible tug towards the absolute and pure oblivion of unconsciousness, just a few blank hours to get him farther away from this moment in time, give his body a chance to adjust to this new reality, this new bit of emptiness. Maybe he was ready to pray now, ready to kneel in front of nothing and plead to some absent God for forgiveness, for divine punishment, for something that just wasn’t  _ this _ . 

But as he pulled closer he realized there was a slow trickle of people making their way into the church, a thin crowd of colorfully bundled good Christian folk attending late service, and there was just no way that he would be able to sit through an hour long sermon on the virtues of forgiveness and the pure exaltation of Love through God, so he turned his bike around, no destination in mind, just driving  _ away _ . He found himself pulling into the empty lot of a liquor store, belatedly realized it was the same one he’d gone to that day Aziraphale had told him his dog had died, a thousand years ago when he’d walked Crowley home instead of letting him drive drunk. 

It was miraculously open,  _ thank God for 24 hour liquor stores _ , the neon sign buzzing and pulsing, bright fluorescent lighting leaking out into a thick layer that shone through the wide glass windows and attracted Crowley like a moth to flame, a beacon that promised another kind of oblivion, a more dangerous, addictive kind. 

He bought himself a fifth of whiskey, the same kind he’d had that day with Aziraphale,— because why the fuck not?—went out into the lot and drank it straight out of the brown paper bag he’d been handed it in, lounged against the side of his bike and let the sense of deja vu wash over him.  _ Full circle, right? _ Better than facing reality, at any rate.

He didn’t get more than a few good mouthfuls down before he was getting back onto his bike and just driving, head down, mind a near blank wash of static, just going, lefts and rights as he pleased, quickly found himself out towards the edge of town, a vaguely familiar bit of road, fields stretching out nearly to the horizon on either side. He pulled over on auto-pilot, and for a moment he couldn’t pinpoint why, and then he realized that the stubs he could see poking up from the snow were wheat, that he had  _ somehow _ fucking managed to pull up to the place he’d taken Aziraphale on what he would’ve said was their first almost-date, to star-gaze and picnic in the middle of a field. He found himself staggering out into it, boots crunching over the frozen stalks.

There was no way to tell where he’d flattened out a patch for them so long ago, so he just walked until it felt right, and then he threw his head back, eyes closed against the grey-black emptiness of the sky, stretched his arms out to either side, bottle still clench in his right fist, and screamed. Screamed like he was dying, like he hated the whole world, like a surrender and a threat at once, and it felt good; even though his broken rib creaked in protest, even though his arms almost immediately started to ache from being held out at his shoulders.

He screamed until he went hoarse, until he lost his voice completely, could do nothing but puff silent, agonized breaths towards the stars, barely peeking out through the clouds, just flickers and tiny patches of night sky coming into and out of view. He stood until he couldn’t anymore, until his feet had gone entirely numb and he dropped to his knees, leaned his forehead over to press against the frozen ground. And then he sobbed, quiet, soft, shallow-breathed cries, involuntary, and each one felt like the worst breath he’d ever taken. He felt pitiful, small, let the misery find a nice little home for itself in his chest, dark and frozen and so _fucking_ _empty_. 

He cried until he had worn himself out, until his tears had frozen into hard salt tracks on his face, cried until he fell asleep, curled like a comma around the mostly full bottle of whiskey, a tiny punctuation mark in endless grey fields. 

He woke to a clear, star-flecked sky, far enough from any sort of light source that just those tiny pinpricks were bright enough to wash the world in a beautiful and terrible sort of silver, stripping the color away from everything until the huge expanse of grey emptiness that surrounded him matched the feeling in his chest. 

And Crowley just curled up tighter, not even wincing at the lance of pain that shot through him.  _ You shouldn’t be alive _ . He knew the cold probably should have got him by now, and he wasn’t even shivering, couldn’t feel the frigid ground at all, so it couldn’t be too long now. 

He thought of the book he had stuffed behind some of his plants in the living room, hiding it from his father; because after his bike, it was without question his single most valuable possession. He thought about his mom, and Bee, wondered where they might be, if they were still as winter-bound as he was. He didn’t care. Not about any of it. Nothing mattered and there was not a single person in the world who knew or even cared where he was right now. 

He had to admit there was a terrible sort of freedom in that thought, the idea that he could be entirely forgotten, that no one would even realize he was missing until it was far too late, and even then, who would it be? His father, if he took a rare jaunt into sobriety, maybe. Certainly not Aziraphale, not anymore. 

He was so fucking  _ alone _ in the world, and he was… he was  _ angry _ about it. He wanted to dig his fingers into the earth, pull it out in handfuls, pound the rage out with his fists against the ground, but it was frozen solid, and Crowley’s fingers were so, so cold. He’d lie here a little longer, just a little bit. 

But his rib ached so fiercely, and he was so thirsty, and he came to the hazy realization that he hadn’t eaten since his dinner with Aziraphale’s family.  _ Food _ . That was enough to get up for, for now, and if it wasn’t enough later, tomorrow, well, he’d just have to think of something else. Had to keep fucking going, because what the hell else could he do? 

He slowly made his way back to the road, swung himself over his bike and drove onwards, no destination in mind, just somewhere else, somewhere warm and dry and unfamiliar. He stopped at the first diner he came across, some real old greasy spoon type place, looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since the 50’s.  _ Perfect _ . 

_ Alpha Centauri Diner, _ the tall, triangular sign out front proclaimed, a hideous retro mix of curly pink and blue letters. And maybe it was because he liked that one, that binary star system, the closest to Earth after the Sun and one of his favorites, the first stop on a long way out, but the squat little building seemed to call out to him, and he let himself be pulled in by it, grateful for any gravity that wasn’t the constant tug he felt towards Aziraphale. 

He stumbled inside, the cold finally catching up with him as the warmth of the diner rushed to greet him. He couldn’t control his shivering, teeth chattering like one of those stupid toys dentists handed out, one of those sets of wind-up jaws that would bite its way across a table. He always thought they were hungry, greedy things, but maybe they were just cold. Just cold and trying to get away. _Ugh._ _Not everything is a metaphor for your life, Crowley. _He was so tired of himself, could barely muster the energy to be irritated at how much he was trying to relate to _inanimate _**_fucking_**_ objects_. _Pathetic_. 

He threw himself down into a booth, slumping over the table in exhaustion as his body shook out the cold, was surprised when a steaming mug of coffee was placed in front of him, a tall waitress with shockingly red hair offering him a soft, “Here you are hon. You look like you need it.” 

He didn’t even bother protesting, or offering thanks, just wrapped his hands around it and breathed in the thick warm smell that curled off the surface, pulled it in with deep sucking breaths, uncaring of the painful jolt in his side that accompanied each one. He finally raised the mug to his lips, teeth no longer clacking together so painfully loud. 

He only meant to take a sip, but he found himself tossing back the whole mug, burning his tongue and gulping down the scalding liquid as though the heat of it might fill up the aching, empty space in his chest. And it did, for a few blessed moments. But it quickly faded and that heavy echoing feeling of nothingness was back. He stared down into the empty mug, considering whether or not another cup would be worth it just for those few seconds of relief, when he heard the squeaking shift of the seat across from him. He flicked his eyes up angrily towards the waitress who had given him the coffee, who was now sitting down across from him, half-empty coffee pot still held loosely in her sharp, poorly-manicured fingers. 

“You look like you could use a friend.” She said, bringing a hand up to check that her hair was still in place, “And I’m on break, so.” She shrugged, refilled his mug, settled herself back into the booth.

“Fuck off.” Crowley rasped out, voice still shredded from the cold and his screaming.

“Alright then, how ‘bout just someone to talk to?”

He glared at her, but after a minute he somehow found himself mumbling down towards his coffee, “I just… I really fucked up. I fucked up so badly and I don’t know if he’ll— if  _ I’ll _ — ever forgive me.” His breath hitched around an exhausted sigh, and suddenly he  _ had _ to get the rest of the words out, because now that he’d gone and started talking, they were rattling around in his chest, making his rib hurt. “I told him… I said I didn’t  _ love _ him. How could I say that? How could I…” he dropped his head into his hands, huffed out an embarrassingly wet breath towards his freshly filled mug. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, hon?” 

And that shouldn’t have worked, it really shouldn’t have, but her voice was so soft, not even a shred of judgement in it, and Crowley found his lips moving without his permission, and once he had started it felt like he couldn’t stop. 

So he kept going, stumbling over the words like he’d been pushed at the start, had to keep his momentum up or he’d crash and burn. His voice faded in and out over terrible cracks, and he kept his elbows up on the table so he could hide his face in his hands, so he didn’t have to look at her, didn’t have to look at anything but his own miserable reflection staring back at him from the steaming mug in front of him. He let his mind shut off, let his mouth wander through his problems without stopping to examine each fact to see if it might benefit from some sugar-coating, or if it might just be better to lie altogether. 

_ Shut  _ ** _up_ ** _ , Crowley, why are you even telling her any of this _ ?!  _ She’s a complete stranger! _ But then again, that was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The beautiful anonymity he could claim just a few towns away. He could be anybody. She could be anybody. And it didn’t matter, because now they were both sitting here, in this booth, in the middle of frozen-wasteland American nowhere, and it was the best that Crowley was going to get. 

He had started at the very beginning, started with community service and a new kid at school, and he didn’t bother to hide the violence of his life, didn’t try to make himself look good, because he wasn’t good, and he knew that, knew that lying to himself about it would get him nowhere. It was just that Aziraphale had made him feel like maybe he  _ could _ be good, maybe he didn’t have to stay in the miserable shitty rut he’d been born into, maybe there was something more out there for him, if he just  _ tried _ .

He didn’t bother to tidy any of it up, just purged the whole messy thing out of himself at once, coughed it up like if he could just get it out, maybe it would stop hurting, stop eating him fucking alive from the inside. And she listened, patient and utterly silent, and Crowley could only assume her eyes were on him, wouldn’t dare to look up and see for himself. 

After a small eternity, he finally reached the present moment, finished relaying the painful few hours he had spent asleep in a field, not too long ago, and the silence that fell over him when he finally managed to stop talking felt like a sheet of ice, heavy and thick and freezing cold. 

“Well.” She whistled low under her breath. His eyes flickered upwards at that, just a half-second glance, enough to take in her sympathetic but still miraculously judgment-free expression. “That’s a real mess you’ve got yourself into.” 

Crowley couldn’t help the laugh that squeezed out of him, a pained yelp of a thing he never wanted to hear again. “Yeah. Big mess.” He sniffed, and he wasn’t sure when he had started crying again, but his face was wet, and he hastily wiped at it with his sleeve, picked up his now-lukewarm coffee and used it to wash down the tight feeling in his throat. 

“And what are you gonna do now?” She asked, not at all gentle, and Crowley was so glad for it, couldn’t bear to feel pity, feel  _ tenderness _ directed at him, not right now. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t  _ want _ it. 

“Dunno. Might leave town for a bit, drive somewhere. Maybe go to California, get away from the cold.”  _ Get away from the winter, from Aziraphale’s favorite season, go somewhere the snow never touches _ . 

“Uh-huh.” She tapped a nail against the side of the coffee pot. “That doesn’t seem like a very good idea.” 

“Why not?” He wanted to feel offended, but he couldn’t muster the effort for it. 

“Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices, right?” She spread her hands out on the table, “One, you can turn yourself right back around and grovel on your knees to this boy you so clearly love, and if he loves you the way you love him, he’ll take you back, eventually.” 

Crowley turned his face away at those words, breath catching like he’d been punched in the gut. He couldn’t do that. It would be inexcusably cruel to show up only a day after telling Aziraphale that he didn’t love him, could  _ never  _ love him; just to try and take it back, to say that no, actually, that wasn’t true, he hadn’t meant it; to try to convince him that Crowley was worth another chance, worth trusting again. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve forgiveness, not for this. 

“Two,” she continued, heedless of Crowley’s pained reaction, “You can keep on running from it, drive yourself all the way to the coast even, and let this haunt you for the rest of your life. Because it will, believe me.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a sharp-nailed finger. “Listen hon, I know you don’t know me, and there’s no reason for you to believe me, but trust me on this, because I  _ know _ . You’ll regret it until the day you die if you let him go like this.” Her eyes blazed, and Crowley found himself nodding, could feel her conviction from across the table, and maybe she’d let someone get away from her, or maybe she’d left someone, but it didn’t matter because he could read the soft echo of his fresh pain on her face, could so easily see himself in that future. She wasn’t even all that much older than him, and then again, he already knew he’d be dying young anyway. He could see that if he kept going the way he was now, he would end up just the same as her. Working some shitty, dead end job, loveless and tired and lonely. 

“But my dad…” he offered up, weakly. 

“Are you going to live your whole life in fear of that man? Because one day you’ll realize you’re all grown up, and you’re still living in his shadow, and you’ll hate yourself for it.” Her eyes darted to Crowley’s left, where he had tucked the brown paper bag of whiskey into his jacket. “You don’t want that.” 

“But his family…” 

“Listen, kid, the world is full of shitty, homophobic assholes, alright? But the kind of love you described to me sounds like it’s worth it. Would you rather live your whole life waiting for some unknown punishment, or take advantage of every damn blessing you’ve been offered, look back and only feel regret for the people who couldn’t see how  _ good _ it was for you? Doesn’t sound like much of a competition, if you ask me.” 

“But…” 

“If you’re about to say you don’t  _ deserve _ him, that he’s  _ too good _ for you, I want you to think about where you are right now. I want you to think about the kinds of things you’re willing to do to make him happy, to keep him safe even if it means torturing yourself. Would a bad person be willing to make that kind of sacrifice?” 

He couldn’t answer that, and she knew it. 

“C’mon, my break’s almost up and I’m absolutely dying for a cigarette.” She stood, waited for him to scoot to the edge of the booth and join her, walked them back out in the freezing cold and lit herself a cigarette, offered him one out of her pack. 

He took it, let her light the end for him, took a long, deep drag, the burning curl of the smoke so terribly familiar, but it wasn’t his brand of cigarettes, and he was thankful that at least there was something different here, something he could latch onto. They smoked in silence for a long minute, clouds of breath and heat pouring from their mouths with each exhale. 

“Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do, kid. I’m gonna get you a hot meal, you’re not going to thank me for it, and then you’re going to get back on your bike and you’re going to go straight home. You’ll deal with your dad, but only if you absolutely have to, and then you’re gonna take a nice, long nap, and when you wake up, you’re gonna go see that boy and you’re gonna apologize like your life depends on it. How’s that sound?” 

Crowley couldn’t speak, just nodded, thought about the brutality of winter and the kindness of strangers. He took one final drag on his cigarette, let the smoke settle in his lungs before pushing it out in a rush, pitching the butt to the icy asphalt and crushing it under his heel. 

He took a deep breath of freezing air, ignored the complaint from his rib. “Okay.” 

She smiled, discarded her own cigarette and walked them back inside, brought Crowley a menu and a new mug full of coffee, patted his shoulder and smiled. 

She looked so endlessly tired, and Crowley trusted her because of it. Because he could see the marks that life had worn into her and he knew that if there was anyone who might understand how stuck he felt, how trapped he was by his own shitty circumstance, it would be her. Random waitress in a random diner on a random stretch of road. 

They were strangers, but mirrored strangers, like he’d been meant to come here, hadn’t had a choice, really, and now he knew what he had to do. He knew he had to fix it, and no matter how long it took or how much he had to work for it, he would do it. 

Aziraphale was worth it. 

\--- --- ---

It took Crowley two entire weeks it get his shit together. 

He’d followed the waitress’s instructions, or at least most of them. She had gotten him a meal, he hadn’t thanked her, and he’d gone home. His father was still there, but he was out cold, sprawled carelessly over his bed, still wearing a jacket and shoes. Crowley crept in silently, knew that if he didn’t fill the wood stove before he passed out, they’d both wake up freezing, and his dad would be pissed. 

But he found that once he woke up, all his previous bravado had left him, and now all he had left was the desperate, pressing need to find Aziraphale and apologize, but he  _ couldn’t _ , because it had to be  _ perfect _ , he needed to get this just exactly right, he’d only get one good shot at it before Aziraphale cast him away forever, snuffed out the traitorous little flame of hope that had sprung up in the new, cavernous space in his chest. Admittedly, he was afraid to lose it, didn’t know how to recover if that bright little flare was taken away from him.

So he slept, and moped around, and chain smoked enough cigarettes to feel the sickly edge of nicotine poisoning, wasted four days feeling sorry for himself, missing Aziraphale fiercely but unwilling (unable) to do anything about it. On the fifth day he snapped himself out of it, drank an entire pot of coffee in one sitting, and then proceeded to spend the next 36 hours planning, and worrying, and scrapping his plans, and making new ones, over and over and over, downing coffee as though he needed it to  _ live _ , until he had finally settled on a script he thought might just work.

He drove to Aziraphale’s house, one week after he had last pulled up to that intimidating black gate. He stopped his bike, vacillated for a moment, and then took a few laps around the block, fruitlessly trying to see into the windows from the street, wanting to have some idea of what Aziraphale was doing, what kind of mood he might be in. It would be disastrous to catch him at a bad time, would ruin  _ everything _ , and Crowley couldn’t afford that. He lurked around Aziraphale’s block for three days, too anxious to even make it past the front gate, endlessly chastising himself for his cowardice and (frankly) creepy behaviour, but he was just so  _ nervous _ . 

After three days he lost his nerve again. If he couldn’t figure out the best time to talk to Aziraphale, he wouldn’t do it at all. Fucking idiotic, but his brain had made this rule and he wasn’t in any sort of state to fight it. It took him another two days to get his courage up and repeat the same cycle over again. 

He finally managed to muster enough courage to dismount one icy Thursday, the final week before school started up again. He practically ran up to the door, determined to get there before he could change his mind, and knocked twice, immediately twisting both arms behind his back and clutching his fingers together.  _ You can do this, you can do this, you can do this _ . 

The door opened, a familiar face edging around the frame to look at him.

  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early because I'm bored. This fic is now officially completed!!! yay!!

“Hello? Oh. Crowley. It’s you.” It was Aziraphale. Crowley nearly cried with relief that for  _ once _ , it wasn’t a sibling who answered the door. It wasn’t exactly the best reception, but admittedly it wasn’t the worst either. At least the door was still open, hadn’t been slammed in his face. 

“Aziraphale.” He sounded awed, hoarse, cleared his throat, “Hey. I was just wondering if you had some time to talk? Thought maybe we could go for a walk or something?”

“What do you want, Crowley?” And Crowley had never heard him sound like  _ that _ before, or at least had never heard him sound like that  _ towards Crowley _ , not even when they were strangers, and he never wanted to hear it again, never wanted to hear his name spoken by Aziraphale with such  _ disdain _ , such dismissal. 

“I just want to talk, I promise. Please, Aziraphale.” He would beg, if he had to, had decided that when it came to Aziraphale, his pride just wasn’t worth it. If he was going to be honest, he had to be vulnerable, and yeah, maybe it had taken him a few days to get there, but he was there now, was fully prepared to grovel if that’s what it took for Aziraphale to listen to him. “Please,” he repeated, quieter, nearly a whisper, trying to hide the edge of desperation in his voice, trying to speak quietly enough that it wouldn’t poke out around the edges of the word and scare Aziraphale off. 

The blond lifted and dropped his shoulders in a monumental sigh. He looked so  _ tired _ , so old and worn down and seeing it made something in Crowley’s chest twang like a plucked chord, made his hands ache to reach out and just  _ touch _ him, try to comfort him the best he could; but he knew that wouldn’t be welcome right now, that Aziraphale would probably flinch away from him, and that would be so much worse, so he kept his hands behind his back, fingers gripped tight together. 

“Fine. Let me grab my coat.” He closed the door, and Crowley couldn’t help the bright flare in his chest, hope and nerves and excitement and oh  _ fuck  _ he had to get this right. It wasn’t long before the door opened again, Aziraphale now bundled up against the cold, matching hat and gloves and scarf and  _ Christ _ Crowley loved him, couldn’t think why on Earth he had decided that the best (only) option he had was to cut this out of his life. Being around Aziraphale felt like  _ breathing _ again, like he somehow eased the still-bright ache of Crowley’s broken rib, made him feel  _ whole _ .  _ Fuck _ . 

They wandered down the street, towards the tiny park a few blocks away, just an empty lot someone had decided to plant a few trees in, the kind of place a family might go for a picnic during the summer. 

“So?” Aziraphale asked before they had even gotten half a block away from his house. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I… I…”  _ fuck fuck FUCK _ , “I wanted to apologize, and explain what happened, uh, when I…” he swallowed, “that night, because I don’t think I explained it very well at the time and I just—” he closed his eyes for a second, tried to get a firm grasp on the dizzying swirl of his thoughts “—just want you to hear me out, and you don’t even have to say anything if you don’t want to just please,  _ please _ listen.”

“And why should I? You said yourself that you’re a liar. How can I know you aren’t just going to lie to me again?” 

Oh it hurt, it  _ hurt _ to know that he had succeeded, that he had managed to convince Aziraphale that Crowley had forged their whole relationship in dishonesty, just as a way to entertain himself for awhile. 

“I… I don’t know. But if you could just, just pretend to trust me for a little bit, if you just  _ listen _ , you’ll see. You’ll see that I... that I...” 

“That you what?” Aziraphale sounded almost bored, like he was already tired of this conversation, like he regretted agreeing to this walk, and it threw Crowley further into panic. 

“That it wasn’t true! I didn’t mean any of those things! None of them!”

“So you said.”

“No, I mean… I mean  _ that part _ wasn’t true. I’d never lie—” Well. That wasn’t true anymore, was it? “I’ve only lied to you once.” That wasn’t really true either, he lied by omission all the time, or offered little white lies to protect himself, but Crowley had only lied about  _ important  _ things, only lied  _ maliciously, _ once.

“Ha, yeah, the whole of our relationship, you already said. You explained yourself perfectly well before, Crowley, I really don’t need you coming back to rub it in.” 

“I’m not— that isn’t— rgh! Just hold on a second, hold on, let me start over, please, I just want to explain from the beginning.” 

“Do whatever you want, Crowley. I certainly can’t stop you.” Aziraphale wouldn’t even look at him, just kept his eyes fixed forward as they walked.

God, he had been so  _ stupid _ , how had it never occured to him that no matter how much he tried to plan for what Aziraphale might say, how much he tried to prepare himself in advance, actually  _ hearing _ his dismissal, his obvious disinterest in what Crowley had to say, would be so much  _ worse _ ? He could feel his lower lip wobbling, bit down on it savagely to make it stop. 

“When I left your house, that morning. Christmas morning. I was… I was so happy, Aziraphale. You have no idea, just… just so happy. But then when I got home, my… my dad was there, and, well, I didn’t know he was going to be home, so I didn’t leave a note or anything, and I was wearing one of his suit jackets, because I didn’t have any and I knew your family would be all dressed up for—”

“What’s your point, Crowley? I don’t have time for this.”  _ I don’t have time for  _ ** _you_ ** . It was so clear that Crowley nearly  _ heard _ it, felt the sting of the words like a slap across the face, sharper than the icy wind blowing past them. 

“He threatened you. He said… he said if he ever saw you again, ever saw  _ us _ again…” His voice cracked, but he forced himself to keep talking, “And I panicked. I couldn’t— I  _ wouldn’t _ let that happen, Aziraphale. I would never want you to get… to get  _ hurt _ because of me, because of something stupid that  _ I _ did.” 

Aziraphale was silent, the only noise their muffled footsteps and the sharp singing whistle of the wind. 

“He… one of my ribs got, um, cracked and I… I had to leave, but I didn’t have anywhere to  _ go _ , and I was just so scared, Aziraphale. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to keep you safe, so I decided I had to… had to lie to you. Had to pretend that what we had didn’t… didn’t  _ matter _ to me, that I didn’t—”  _ love you _ . He couldn’t get the words out. It felt too much like cracking open his chest, and Aziraphale might not even want to hear it, anymore; he had to accept that.

“So I just wanted, wanted to tell you that. And to say that I’m so, so sorry, and I understand if you…” he tried to swallow around the burning in his throat, tilted his head back a bit to keep the tears from slipping out, “... if you don’t wanna talk to me again, or— or see me anymore, because I know what I did was. Was horrible. And I’m sorry, I just wanted you to, um, to know that it wasn’t true. Nothing I said that awful fucking night was true, I just wanted to _protect_ you, keep you away from my dad and maybe appease your family too, a little bit. And I know that it wasn’t my place to make that decision for you and I’m sorry.” He’d lost the battle with gravity, could feel the hot drip of his tears slipping down over his cheeks, emerging from under the frames of his sunglasses. “I… I care about you. A lot. And if you could just give me another chance, just one opportunity to prove myself to you, I would be so, so grateful. And I wouldn’t fuck it up, I swear, because now I know that nothing matters to me more than you, and maybe that’s selfish but I don’t care because I— because I—” He still couldn’t say it, _you_ _fucking coward_, couldn’t choke out those three stupid little words, not now, not on the street, not in broad daylight, but when he risked a glance over at Aziraphale, he found that his face had softened a little, eyes still tight but mouth looser, pulled down and _oh_. 

So that’s what pity looked like, on him. 

Aziraphale reached out a gloved hand, brushed the tears away from Crowley’s cheeks, offered him a tiny, sad smile. “I need to think about it, Crowley. What you did was… it was cruel, and I need time to deal with it.”

Crowley just nodded, eyes cast down towards the sidewalk, Aziraphale catching his fresh tears as they slid down his cheeks. 

“I’m not… I’m not saying  _ no _ , Crowley. I just... I don’t know yet. You really  _ hurt _ me, and I can’t pretend like nothing happened.” 

Crowley nodded again, brought his eyes up to look at Aziraphale’s face, still protected behind his sunglasses, and sniffed. 

“You could have just told me, Crowley. You  _ should _ have just told me.” 

“I know, I know I should have, but I couldn’t, Aziraphale. I was so afraid, and I knew that you would try to talk me out of it. I’m so terrible at saying no to you, I thought everything would just be easier if I… if I lied.”  _ Excuses, excuses _ .  _ You knew exactly what you were doing. _

“And was it? Easy?” Aziraphale sounded guarded, and that was fair, he was right to be cautious around Crowley; reckless, explosive disaster that he was.

“No.” Crowley could barely get the word out through his throat, closed tight and  _ aching _ with so many things. “It wasn’t. It was horrible. Might even be the actual worst thing I’ve ever done,” he huffed a self-deprecating laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, “and I’ll never stop apologizing for it, not unless you ask me to.” 

Aziraphale smiled at that, a quieter smile than Crowley was used to, but he would have sworn that it still had that soft affection in it that he adored, and he thought:  _ maybe _ .

\--- --- ---

It took a while for Aziraphale to come around. Long enough that school had started up again, and Crowley had suffered three week’s worth of lunches by himself before Aziraphale decided to talk to him again. He had said he needed space, and Crowley was doing his very best to give it to him. 

But before the snow started to melt, sometime in early February, Aziraphale found him during lunch one Monday, tucked away in the corner of the arts classroom, staring blankly ahead, sunglasses firmly in place, slumped over next to the radiator. He knew he must have looked miserable, because he  _ was _ miserable. Every joint in his body ached with loneliness, a bone-deep chill he couldn’t shake. 

“Hello.” Aziraphale spoke very carefully, as though afraid Crowley might startle and flee, and settled himself down a safe couple of feet away. Crowley whipped his head up at the greeting, an expression of such ecstatic hope leaping onto his face that it should have been embarrassing. 

“Aziraphale. Good to… good to see you. How, uh, how are you?” He winced at himself, at the rasping edge to his voice, the way his heart had suddenly started to race in his chest, each beat throbbing through his head like a strobe light, distracting and overwhelming. 

“It’s my birthday today.” Aziraphale offered casually, scraping the tines of his plastic fork over the textured surface of his lunch tray. 

“Oh. Happy birthday?” Crowley didn’t know how he was meant to respond to that, what it fucking  _ meant _ that Aziraphale had finally decided to talk to him again  _ today _ . And he didn’t want to think it, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this was Aziraphale’s birthday present to himself, if this separation was hurting him the same way it hurt Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched to the side like he wanted to smile, but couldn’t muster up the energy for it, couldn’t drag the expression onto his face. He looked like he was in pain, and it made Crowley wish he had  _ known  _ it was Aziraphale’s birthday, could have made some sort of gesture, got him a present maybe, or wished him a happy birthday without Aziraphale needing to tell him. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Aziraphale was still looking down, was now fiddling with his tiny carton of school-supplied orange juice. 

“Yeah?”  _ Fuck _ he really needed to get his voice under control, he was going to make an absolute fool of himself if he didn’t.

“Yes. And I think we should try being friends again. At least for a little bit.” 

Crowley couldn’t respond for a second, utterly consumed by the sudden feeling of elation that flooded his whole body, made his fingertips buzz and his lips go numb. 

“Okay, yeah, friends. I can do that.” He would’ve taken anything Aziraphale offered, couldn’t even make himself feel disappointed that they weren’t going to be getting back together.  _ Yet _ .

“And maybe in awhile, if… if I decide I can trust you again, we can try going back to how we were before.” 

“Yeah, okay. Sure. We can do that.” He sounded breathless, didn’t care. They were going to be  _ friends  _ again. He could  _ see _ Aziraphale,  _ talk _ to him, and for now, that would have to be enough. 

\--- --- ---

It was… strange, after that. They acted like strangers, as though they didn’t know what the inside of each other’s mouths tasted like, or how it felt to be as close as two people could physically be. It was as though they had rewound to the beginning of the year, were feeling each other out and reacquainting themselves with what they found. 

And it was terrible, the first two weeks, spending time with Aziraphale without touching him, trying not to let the naked affection Crowley felt for him bleed onto his face, or into his voice. It was so hard to keep their time together completely platonic, to constantly censor himself and the muscle memory his body had developed for being around Aziraphale. It left Crowley exhausted after every interaction.

He drank too much, got high alone in his tiny self-made garden of a living room, drove recklessly, did all the things he’d promised Aziraphale he would come to him for help with, all the things he’d promised he wouldn’t do. And that worked, for awhile. 

It reminded him that Aziraphale didn’t have to save him. Had, in fact, zero responsibility for Crowley. And he was just taking advantage of that.  _ Right? _ But he hated it, hated that he felt so fucking  _ alone _ all the time, that he kept catching himself turning towards the empty space beside him as though he expected Aziraphale to be there, smiling and bright and lovely, and he never was. It  _ sucked _ . 

If Aziraphale just  _ let him in _ again, he knew he wouldn’t be doing any of it. Wouldn’t feel like he was stuck in molasses with his brain going a hundred miles an hour, dizzy with the constant bombardment of his own desire and heartache. To be honest, at this point he was mostly just fucking tired of  _ feeling _ this way. 

But he got a little better at it, as time went on, told himself he could be happy like this, even if he never got any more, even if this was all Aziraphale was willing to offer him. 

And that worked too, for a while. 

\--- --- ---

They had been friends (again) for nearly four weeks, winter just starting to loosen its grip on their town, the pure white fluff of snow long melted, a few dirty grey drifts of the stuff still huddling together on street corners, against houses. 

They were at Aziraphale’s house. They’d gotten back into the habit of spending their afternoons there together, and they were currently watching a movie in his ridiculous home theatre. Crowley was being good, paying attention and not thinking about how much he wished he could pull Aziraphale against him and kiss him until his face went numb. 

No, he wasn’t thinking about that at all, so he was taken by surprise when he felt the soft brush of fingers along his thigh, the careful tug of them against his own hand where it rested in his lap, linking their fingers together and pulling the knot of them to rest on the couch between them. 

Crowley wasn’t sure he breathed for the rest of the movie. 

\--- --- ---

The first time they got high together again, in the strange limbo of old-but-new (you-know-I-want-you-but-I’ll-be-patient) friends, was torture.

They were at Aziraphale’s house again, and the sun was still shining brightly outside the window. It was a Friday, they’d gotten out early from school, and Aziraphale had told him no one would be home for  _ hours _ , so Crowley had offered up a joint with a quietly mischievous quirk of his eyebrow and a smile that he hoped didn’t betray the nearly painful thump of his heart at the prospect of being around Aziraphale while they were both high, the strange deja vu of it. 

They hadn’t forgotten their routine for this, and it was so terribly easy for them to kick off their shoes, crawl over Aziraphale’s bed to the window, lean halfway over the frame to exhale pungent clouds of smoke away from the room and its precious stacks of old books, kneeling shoulder-to-shoulder, passing the burning bit of paper back and forth between them.

Crowley couldn’t help but watch Aziraphale’s mouth as he smoked, the way those familiar pink lips wrapped around the end of the joint, the peek of his tongue as he licked them and passed the joint back to Crowley, the soft droop of his eyelids, the way Crowley could  _ feel _ the blond unwinding next to him, could feel the tension Aziraphale had started to carry around everywhere easing, as though each exhale carried his fears and worries away in a soft grey wash of breath. It was mesmerizing, made Crowley feel a tingly rush that had nothing to do with the drugs. 

He’d thought it would be fine, that he’d be able to control himself while high, that he could still keep his feelings shoved down into the little box he’d made for them, that his lowered inhibitions wouldn’t make him do something stupid. But now that they were here, together, on Aziraphale’s bed, this place they’d spent so much time together Before, he just wanted to  _ tell _ him, wanted so badly to confess to Aziraphale how much he wanted him, how much he  _ missed  _ him, how he never stopped thinking about them together, that nothing else in his life mattered more than being able to spend time with him. The bright afternoon sun blazing through the window helped, kept him from saying the things he knew he shouldn’t, the things he’d stored away in some dark unacknowledged corner of his brain, the secret place where he kept his confessions.

But it was so damn hard, and each lungful of smoke blurred the edges of his control a little more, until he found himself biting his tongue savagely enough to taste the metallic coppery tang of his own blood, obsessively pinching and rubbing his fingers over Aziraphale’s bedspread in an effort to distract himself from how badly he wanted to reach out and  _ touch _ . 

When they’d smoked the joint down to nothing but a coal-bright stub, too small to even pinch between their fingers, Crowley flicked it over the sill and they lay down on Aziraphale’s bed, a good foot apart and both staring dazedly at the ceiling. This too was part of their routine, and the worst part was how  _ familiar _ it was, how Crowley could almost pretend nothing had changed between them. 

But the memory of the last time they’d smoked together, the things they’d done on this bed,  _ right here _ , were pounding against the inside of his skull, forced him to shut his eyes to try to concentrate on  _ anything _ else, on the smell of old books (the smell of  _ Aziraphale _ ), the soft cotton texture of the duvet under his arms, the way his clothes fit over his skin. He could hear Aziraphale shifting around next to him, didn’t dare to open his eyes, even when he felt the cautious brush of fingertips along his exposed inner forearm, a soft, barely-there brush that made his whole body break out in goosebumps.

“Do you remember—” Aziraphale started, words slow and thick as honey.

“Yes.” Crowley couldn’t let him finish the sentence. There was nothing about Aziraphale that he didn’t remember in excruciating detail, and he was pretty sure he already knew what the blond was going to say, didn’t know if he could handle being reminded of the first time they had smoked in Aziraphale’s room, that time the blond had informed him, very seriously, that he was  _ soft _ , even if he thought he wasn’t. He knew how accurate that statement was now, knew it was true in more ways than one. He was soft. Soft, and stupid, and idiotic and  _ weak _ . But none of that mattered when he was with Aziraphale. 

He had known that Aziraphale probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from touching him if they got high together, had  _ wanted _ it, even, wanted it so badly he was willing to humiliate himself for it. But now that he’d got it, it was too much. 

He didn’t know— didn’t  _ want _ to know— if Aziraphale was just forgetting himself, if he was doing this on auto-pilot, blindly seeking sensation; or if he  _ meant _ it, if it was  _ intentional _ . Either way, Crowey couldn’t face it, kept his eyes tightly shut and tried to think about nothing. It didn't work. 

The tentative sweep of those soft, blunt-tipped fingers over his skin was hypnotic to Crowley, and his breathing slowed, body relaxing as he let himself drown in the feeling, stopped worrying about controlling his own responses to it. 

But after a precious few moments, Aziraphale yanked his hand back, muttered, “Sorry.” 

Crowley wanted to  _ cry _ . He felt like a child who had just had their favorite stuffed toy ripped out of their hands and tossed in the trash, like he’d been dunked in ice water, and his entire body instantly went rigid again. It was so much worse to feel that rejection while high, his brain slow on the uptake and still trying to feel the sensation of those soft fingers over his skin, the ghost-impression that Aziraphale’s fingers had left behind feeling more like a brand. 

He opened his mouth to say something, to get his brain to pull away from the well of longing he could feel himself backsliding into, but all he managed to say was, “I don’t mind,” which wasn’t what he wanted to say at  _ all _ , and he immediately braced himself for Aziraphale’s  _ pity _ , which he had become unfortunately well-acquainted with over the past few weeks. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, didn’t move, and eventually Crowley stopped waiting for a response, told himself that maybe the blond hadn’t heard him.

But after a few more minutes of both of them staring silently at the ceiling, Aziraphale’s hand was back, tracing up the veins of his arm as though he knew them by touch, an absent-minded brush that shot Crowley’s heart back up into his throat, made him squeeze his eyes shut tight. He  _ missed _ Aziraphale, missed him even when they were sitting right next to each other, missed him even as his fingers swirled absently over the sensitive skin of his inner arm. 

Crowley hadn’t known his own capacity for  _ yearning _ , had never felt so completely  _ overwhelmed _ by a desire before, and it took him horribly by surprise. He’d never known how much his body would crave touch, how much his heart would crave soft looks, soft words. Way back when he’d wanted Aziraphale without actually knowing what the blond  _ felt _ like, it had been an itch, distracting sure, but mostly ignorable. But now, oh, now Crowley  _ knew _ what he was missing, and it made his skin feel like it was just a little too tight, like he could feel the sharp edges of his own bones pressing out against it. He  _ burned _ . 

Aziraphale pulled his hand away again, just as quick, like touching Crowley had been an accident, something he didn’t want. 

Crowley refused to look at him and see the regret on his face, the only self-preservation instinct he still had. As soon as his arm was free he curled it up to his chest, pressed the still-tingling skin to his heart, as though he could transfer the memory of Aziraphale’s touch there. He turned onto his side towards Aziraphale, eyes still closed, and let himself drift, concentrated on syncing his breathing with the blond. He didn’t open his eyes, not even when he heard the rustle of the sheets, the soft squeak of compressed springs as the blond turned onto his own side, and he only knew it had happened because he could suddenly feel the soft wash of Aziraphale’s breath over his face. 

It was too much. He  _ couldn’t _ have opened his eyes then, even if he’d wanted to (and he didn’t), because now they were so, so close, and it didn’t feel real, lying down with Aziraphale like this, close enough to feel his body heat. They weren’t touching, and Crowley made sure to hold himself very, very still. The only reason he wasn’t holding his breath was because he was still breathing in time with Aziraphale, and it gave him something to focus on. 

He was meant to be giving Aziraphale space, and time, but  _ fuck _ it was difficult. He just wanted him back. Wanted it so badly, it paralyzed him. And that was good, that was what he needed. He needed to be still and quiet and not let himself shake with the force of his feelings. There were so many of them, too many to hold on to at once. He was angry, that he had let this happen, that he’d  _ done this to his fucking self _ , made it so Aziraphale wouldn’t trust him. And of course he was sad, sad that he’d lost Aziraphale, maybe permanently, because he’d panicked and done something stupid and then hid himself away from it for two weeks.  _ Stupid.  _

He’d never felt more like a junkie than he did around Aziraphale. He was so weak for him, would do anything to get more time together, got strung out and weird when they were apart too long, made himself sick with wanting. It felt like a  _ disease _ , was so much worse than how Crowley had pined for him when they first became friends. He knew what he wanted now, knew how it felt to be given it freely, could  _ feel _ the ghost of kisses and brushes of fingers and tiny, private smiles. 

This was definitely Hell. Crowley had fucking died in that goddamn field on Boxing Day and this was his punishment, his sentence of eternal suffering. 

He knew he was perhaps being a bit dramatic about the whole thing. But it  _ hurt _ .

It was two hours later when Crowley jerked awake. The sun was just beginning to set outside, the soft wash of it lighting everything up golden and warm. Aziraphale had fallen asleep as well, was still breathing slow and even, still lying on his side next to Crowley, one hand curled loosely on the bed between them, as though he’d been reaching out before he’d fallen asleep and then thought better of it. He looked beautiful. His curls were perfectly backlit, gold-touched white, like he actually really did have a halo.

Crowley let himself stare, because Aziraphale was asleep, would never know. He let his eyes trace the gentle slope of Aziraphale’s nose, the way it turned up just a bit at the end, the perfect divot of his philtrum; let them wander up to the brush of his eyelashes over his cheek, the blond strands usually nearly invisible, lit gold in the sun. Crowley watched, rapt, as Aziraphale smacked his lips together in sleep, gently adjusting the set of his jaw. It was sappy and stupid and pointless to stare this way, to memorize his features and think that each one was perfect, but Crowley  _ loved _ him, and now he had to deal with that feeling on his own, and he would take what he could get. 

\--- --- ---

It was a few days later when Crowley asked to kiss him again for the first time. They were sprawled out on Aziraphale’s bed, swinging their legs back and forth over the side like little kids, laughing as they tried to think of the most innuendo-laden book title they could. 

“ _ Moby Dick _ !” had been Crowley’s first suggestion, low hanging fruit that it was. Aziraphale responded with a hesitant, “ _ Grapes of Wrath _ ?” Which had Crowley rolling over, clutching at his sides as he laughed, rib finally healed enough not to ache with every breath, but not quite whole enough to withstand his gale-force laughter. 

“What? I think it could count!”

“If that counts, then  _ Treasure Island _ should too.” 

“ _ Hard Times _ ? It’s a Dickens.” 

“ _ Call of the Wild? _ Does that count?” 

“ _ I Love Dick _ .”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Shut up, it’s a real book!” 

“No fucking way. I don’t believe you.” 

“No, it is! Maybe I’ve got a copy around here somewhere, I’ll prove it to you.”

“You  _ would _ have a copy of  _ I Love Dick _ just lying around, wouldn’t you?” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Crowley.” 

But they were both laughing, curled towards each other on the bed, and suddenly all Crowley wanted in the world was to kiss him. He froze, laughter cut short, and Aziraphale turned, lazy smile still in place, “What?”

“Can I… can I kiss you?” Crowley whispered, because maybe if he said it quietly enough, Aziraphale would say yes.

The blond looked at him considerately for a moment, then turned away, smile sliding into a look Crowley was now uncomfortably familiar with. It was that fucking  _ pity _ again, and every time he saw it, he knew it meant  _ no _ ; meant  _ you’re going too fast for me _ ; meant  _ I still need more time _ . And Crowley refused to push it, would wait all the way up to the day Aziraphale left for college if that was all he could get. 

“No. Not… not yet.” 

“Okay.” 

_ Maybe next time. _

\--- --- ---

Then Crowley went and got the flu, because of course he did, driving around in the freezing cold with his shoddy excuse for a jacket not even zipped closed.  _ Reckless idiot.  _

He was bed-ridden for nearly a week, dizzy and confused with fever. His father took one look at him, pathetically tangled in his blanket, soaked through with sweat, clutching his head in his hands and groaning, and walked out. 

“You stay the fuck away from me with that contagion shit. I’m not about to let you infect me with whatever you’ve got, you hear? It’s your own damn fault for getting ill, and I won’t sit around your damn sickbed and play nurse to your dumbass, Anthony.” Then, muttered under his breath, “Disgusting.” The slam of the door behind him set Crowely’s teeth on edge, made his ears ring as he slumped over to his side. 

Some undetermined amount of time later, Crowley woke to a soft tap at the door, croaked out a “Hello?” and was rewarded with a soft, “Crowley? It’s me. Are you alright? You weren’t at lunch today and I—” 

Even ill as he was, hearing Aziraphale standing outside his door sent a bolt of panic through him. He had  _ told _ Aziraphale not to come over anymore, especially not unannounced. Crowley’s father was not something he was willing to bargain Aziraphale’s safety on, and how could the blond have been so  _ stupid _ as to risk coming here? He couldn’t possibly have known that Crowley’s dad wasn’t home, had left only a few hours ago. 

“‘Ziraph’l, what— I told you not to come over here! It’s not—” he was interrupted by a fit of dry coughs that made his rib creak in protest, and he groaned at the familiar ache— “not safe.”

“I know, Crowley but… I was worried. Can I come in?”

“No. ‘M sick, go away.” Crowley turned on his side away from the door, curled up miserably and coughed again, weakly. He should just go back to sleep. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice sounded much closer than it had any right to be, and Crowley threw himself over onto his back, tried to ignore the way it made his head spin, glaring up at the blond who had  _ apparently _ decided to let himself in.

“Angel, I said—”

“You look  _ terrible _ .” 

Crowley grunted in response, “Yeah. Thanks for that. Feel pretty shit too.” 

“Can I get you anything? Maybe some water? Or food?”

Crowley sighed. He really should tell Aziraphale to leave, there was no telling whether or not his father might change his mind and decide to come back. But he  _ wanted  _ Aziraphale there, wanted to be taken care of, to be fussed over, just a little bit. 

“Can I get some water?” he eventually mumbled, and Aziraphale was immediately bustling over to the kitchen and filling a cup from the tap. 

He returned and brushed a hand over Crowley’s forehead as he handed him the cup, gasping out a soft, “Oh, you poor thing! You’re burning up!” 

Crowley just glared at him weakly, swallowing the water despite the tug on his sore throat as he swallowed. 

“You must have some sort of fever medicine around here somewhere…” Aziraphale was ignoring him, wandering towards the bathroom and a moment later Crowley could hear him rummaging around in a drawer, the tell-tale rattling of a bottle of pills being shaken. “Ah! This should do.” 

Aziraphale returned, small plastic bottle in hand, shook out two pills and offered them to Crowley. “Here. Take these.” 

Crowley didn’t even bother to check what they were, just obediently popped them into his mouth and swallowed them with the last of the water. 

“You should get some sleep, Crowley. I’ll come back tomorrow and see how you’re doing.”

But before he could step away, Crowley’s hand shot out and grabbed one of Aziraphale’s sleeves, crumpling the fabric in the tight grip of his fist. “Don’t go.” It slipped out before he could stop himself, and he was too exhausted and sick to do anything but stare at Aziraphale beseechingly once he’d said it. He wasn’t going to take it back, and if Aziraphale wanted to hold that against him, well. He was ill, he was allowed a little weakness. 

“Crowley… I don’t think that’s a very good idea. What if your dad comes home?” Aziraphale finally said, prying Crowley’s fingers off of his sleeve. He was right, damn him. Why was he always fucking right? Crowley let his hand be pulled away, dropped it to the bed as though it weighed fifty pounds once Aziraphale had released it. 

“No, you’re right. Forget I asked.” He turned away, closed his eyes and tried to force himself to fall asleep instantly. It didn’t work. He could still hear Aziraphale standing there next to his fold-out bed, not moving. 

Suddenly, the thin mattress behind him dipped, and his eyes shot open. He turned over to watch as Aziraphale settled himself against the back of the couch that served as the headboard, crossing his ankles and folding his hands into his lap primly. 

“I’ll stay for a little bit. Just until you fall asleep.” 

Crowley closed his eyes again, and slowly, cautiously brought up one hand to pinch the fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers between two fingers, just the barest anchor. 

When he woke, hours later, sweating and confused in the disorientingly dark room, Aziraphale was gone. 

\--- --- --- 

But the next day, Aziraphale came back. And the day after that, and the one after that. 

Crowley would be dozing, strange bright dreams and a pulsing irreality to the world, and then there would be a soft knock at the door. Sometimes he would hear it distorted loud and angry, would think his dad was back, would think someone had come to take him away, that someone had finally noticed his poor performance in school and the consequences had finally caught up to him. But it was always Aziraphale, soft and lovely and comforting. 

He would bring soup or a book or tea or just himself, would sit up next to Crowley on the fold-out couch of his bed, would brush the sweaty tangle of his hair away from his forehead and read aloud to him or just sit in silence, would fetch him damp cloths to try and cool him down, tutting and fussing like a mother hen. 

Delirious, Crowley would tell him ridiculous things, would ask Aziraphale with a strange edge to his voice if he looked human, kept sticking out his tongue and trying to look at it, told Aziraphale he was “checking for demon things,” kept nudging his rib on accident and being shocked by the pain. He had the same nightmare over and over, where he was burning— or no, Aziraphale was burning— they  _ both _ were burning, and he would wake up drenched in sweat, chest heaving because he couldn’t  _ breathe _ , imagined smoke filling his lungs and staining them black as pitch, crying out for Aziraphale in a hoarse shout. 

Sometimes he would be sitting right there, trying desperately to get Crowley to hear him, telling him over and over, “I’m right here Crowley, please stop screaming.  _ Crowley _ , listen to me. Crowley you’re fine, please calm down, you’re scaring me.” 

It must have been terrifying for Aziraphale, who couldn’t do anything but sit by his side, every so often offering him more medicine to try and quell the fever, pills that Crowley barely managed to choke down. Aziraphale forced him to drink cup after cup full of water, took his temperature at least twice per visit. He would leave when Crowley drifted off for the night, or when he had to go home for some reason or other, would tuck Crowley in and leave more water, more pills, assure him that he would be back tomorrow. 

In the middle of the week, during the worst of it, he held Crowley, when the ache in his head and his body got to be too much and he sobbed with it, terrible exhausted tears, begging Aziraphale to make it stop hurting. Aziraphale swayed back and forth with Crowley slumped against him, shushing him gently and petting his hair, and it helped. Aziraphale’s hands shook, but Crowley didn’t notice. 

The only thing Crowley regretted about it was being too sick to enjoy it, but not sick enough to have blocked it out completely. Having Aziraphale care for him again, having him  _ there _ every day, offering comfort and attention and the steadiness of himself, was terrible to lose. ( _ Again _ .)

He got better in tiny little increments, and by the end of the week Aziraphale was only coming over for a moment, to check on him, drop off homework that Crowley never did. It nearly made him wish he was still sick. Enough to need attending to, enough to warrant Aziraphale’s full attention. Sick enough to pull him in, fill the awful gaping wound inside his chest where the blond refused to fit himself back into the hole he’d left. 

_ But _ , Crowley told himself,  _ it’s better than nothing _ . And he was right, but he hated it. Hated the flu, hated his stupid rib for healing so slowly, hated the slow retreat of winter, hated Aziraphale and his stupid kindess. 

Mostly, he hated himself. 

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

The next week, when Crowley had finally emerged from his sick-bed and faced the outside world, he was forced to admit that spring had officially arrived. The air was chock-full of pollen, and Crowley learned that Aziraphale had  _ horrific _ allergies, was constantly sneezing and rubbing at his eyes. It was terribly cute. 

It had been almost nine weeks since Crowley’s apology, five since they had become friends, three since Aziraphale had invited Crowley over to his house for the first time, and a little more than one since Crowley had asked to kiss him. 

In other words, it had been quite awhile. 

Crowley was leaning back casually against the short cement wall, reinstated behind the shed at the far end of the soccer field. It was finally warm enough to spend the lunch hour outside, and he was basking in the bright sunshine, enjoying the soft murmur of bees pollinating the little yellow flowers that had sprung up, occasionally bumping clumsily against the hems of his jeans as they bumbled along through the blooms, heavy and drunk on nectar. 

Aziraphale bounced his way across the field, excitement visible from fifty yards away. 

“Crowley! I have, oh, I have the  _ best _ surprise for you!” He was breathless, bright-eyed, wiggling the way he did when he was particularly delighted. 

Crowley told his heart  _ stay down boy _ , told it to get out of his throat and back into his chest where it belonged, managed a smooth, “Yeah? Whassat?” 

“It’s a  _ surprise _ , I said. I can’t tell you. But you have to come over tonight.”

“Err, sure angel, whatever you want.” He hadn’t slept over at Aziraphale’s house since… since Before, and Aziraphale had definitely never asked him like this. 

It made him nervous, in that sort of excited-but-also-absolutely-terrified sort of way. Aziraphale was planning something, and he had no fucking idea what to expect. He couldn’t stop himself hoping that maybe Aziraphale had finally decided that Crowley was worth trusting again, was willing to try being together like they had been Before.  _ Don’t get ahead of yourself _ . 

\--- --- ---

When he showed up to Aziraphale’s house, sun just set, the spreading dark still pink-tinged around the edges; the air was sharp with electricity, like a storm was coming, the earth rich and dark beneath his boots, holding its breath for more early spring rain. 

He wandered through the house, door left unlocked for him and a distinct feeling of… emptiness, as though Crowley could  _ feel _ that no one was home. It sent a shiver down his spine. If no one was home, the possibilities for Aziraphale’s plans expanded hugely, enough to make Crowley trip over his own feet in nervous anticipation.  _ Don’t get ahead of yourself _ . 

He made his way to Aziraphale’s room, knocked and waited for a response. He was much more careful now, wouldn’t dare to throw open a door like he might have a few months ago, refused to invade Aziraphale’s privacy in any way.  _ Building trust _ . 

There was no answer, even after he knocked a second time and called out for Aziraphale, so he slowly turned the handle and started to push open the door, feet still firmly outside the room. He leaned forward, trying to see around the door when he heard the blond’s familiar gait coming down the hall to his left, accompanied by the sound of him whistling to himself.

“Crowley! Perfect timing, come on, we’re going outside.” Aziraphale turned on his heel, away from his room, and paused, expectantly looking over his shoulder towards Crowley, waiting for him to step closer before he started off down the hall. Crowley followed cautiously. Aziraphale was carrying a huge picnic blanket, classic red-and-white gingham, and a wicker basket with a closed lid.

“We doing a picnic?” Crowley did his best to sound casual, but his heart was pounding so hard in his chest it made his rib ache. They’d only picnicked that once, and he fervently hoped Aziraphale knew what it looked like he was offering. 

Aziraphale walked Crowley through more unfamiliar halls. How was it even fucking possible for there to be parts of this house he’d never seen before? He’d known Aziraphale for nearly a  _ year _ at this point, and yet every time he came over he seemed to find a new hallway, a new room he couldn’t recall glimpsing before. It was honestly haunting, and Crowley did his best not to think about it. Aziraphale led them through what looked to be an unoccupied guest room, out a pair of French glass doors, and onto the lawn that stretched behind the house. They crossed out into the middle of a nice grassy patch before Aziraphale set down the basket and shook out the blanket. 

They both sat down, facing each other cross-legged with the basket between them, and Aziraphale opened the lid while Crowley stared at him. “Is this the surprise?” He wasn’t much one for surprises. Too many unpleasant “surprises _ ” _ in his life for him to be able to muster more than a vague sense of unease and suspicion at the prospect, but he trusted Aziraphale, trusted that whatever the blond had planned would be something he might actually enjoy. Aziraphale had a pretty good track record when it came to Crowley and surprises, so he was willing to be at least a little more patient than he might have been otherwise. 

“Oh no, not yet.” Aziraphale smiled placidly as he set out two plastic-wrapped sandwiches and two pears. Crowley shifted nervously, and Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up, seemed to notice his discomfort. 

“There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight. I thought it would be nice to watch it here, with you.”

It took a moment for Crowley to choke out a strangled, “Oh.” 

Aziraphale just smiled, poured them tiny plastic cupfuls of the champagne he’d produced from the basket. He offered one to Crowley, held his own up to it and offered him a soft “cheers,” that Crowley echoed, before taking a careful sip and avoiding eye contact. 

They sat in silence for a bit, sipping their champagne as if they actually knew what they were doing and staring up towards the vast ceiling of sky above them. As they waited, it darkened even further, until the first bright stars appeared overhead. Aziraphale made a pleased noise and resettled himself, lying down on his back and staring upwards, plastic-wrapped sandwich resting on his stomach. 

“It’s a beautiful night.” Aziraphale commented, quietly. 

Crowley kept his eyes, protected still under his sunglasses despite the encroaching dark, on the blond as he agreed. “Yeah. Good one for it.” 

There was a soft roll of thunder that sounded from off to the left, and Crowley turned his head towards the sound, only to see that corner of the sky darkening much more rapidly than the rest, heavy black clouds stacking up on each other and blotting out the light of the stars. 

“Do you think that storm is coming this way?” Crowley asked, pointing towards it as though Aziraphale might not have noticed. 

Aziraphale turned his head and frowned up at the clouds as though they had personally wronged him. “It better not be. This meteor shower only happens every few hundred years. If we miss it... we’ll never get another chance.” 

That sounded a bit ominous, and rather like Aziraphale was talking about something else entirely. Crowley hated to think the fucking  _ weather _ might be the thing that stopped him and Aziraphale from getting back together. Under the stars. It was all disgustingly romantic, but Crowley  _ wanted _ that when it came to Aziraphale. Wanted it so terribly. And maybe, just  _ maybe _ , he let himself think that Aziraphale might want the same thing. 

But before Crowley could reply, the first fat drops of rain appeared on their picnic blanket, tiny dark circles on the spread of red and white. “Uh-oh… I dunno, angel, I think we should probably go back inside before it really gets going.” There was a sudden flash of brightness as lightning cut through the black clouds, reaching greedy fingers towards their clear patch of sky. 

Aziraphale was visibly pouting, looked like he was considering staying put out of sheer stubborn-ness. But then the rain started falling harder, scattered droplets turning into a constant soft patter, the rush of the water audible as it fell through the air. It still wasn’t that much rain (yet), and the clouds hadn’t quite made their way overhead, but the ominous flash of lightning and the low rumble of thunder made Crowley want to get under a roof as soon as possible. His eyes darted around the wide expanse of Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured lawn, landing on an innocuous little building that he recognized from the first time he had climbed over the fence to throw a pebble at Aziraphale’s window. The greenhouse. 

“Okay, how ‘bout a compromise?” Crowley suggested, pointing towards the tiny structure. “We can stay dry and if there’s not too many clouds maybe still see the meteor shower. And we can picnic.” 

Aziraphale still looked put-out, but the rain was coming down in earnest now, was starting to flatten his curls against his scalp, and a small droplet of water tripped off the edge of his nose as he opened his mouth to reply. He seemed to reconsider whatever he was about to say and starting to busily collect all the picnic goods back into the basket. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever even been inside that old thing. No idea how long it’s been there.” He paused, frowned, “or who takes care of it.” 

“Well, what better time to check it out then, right? C’mon angel, before we’re soaked through.” Crowley stood and started bunching the picnic blanket up into his arms, dragging the ends across the grass as he stumbled his way towards the greenhouse in the growing dark. 

The door was a bit stuck, and Crowley had to throw himself against it to force it open, bruising his shoulder in the process, but successfully managed to get them into the tiny little shack all the same. 

It was stunningly humid, and hot enough to make Crowley’s damp clothes stick even more to his skin. The vague shadowy shapes of leaves rose up to greet them in the dark, ominous in their size and Crowley’s inability to identify them, despite his secret-to-everyone-but-Aziraphale interest in gardening. There were three rows of greenery set up, the middle one shorter than the other two and leaving a small area of the concrete floor clear towards the back of the greenhouse, where Crowley unceremoniously dumped the picnic blanket before turning to help Aziraphale with the basket. It seemed they’d lost one of the pears in transit, and Aziraphale’s sandwich was rather soggy-looking, but otherwise they weren’t too much worse for wear. 

The rain was coming down hard now, drumming across the glass roof of the tiny structure, washing the dirt-stained windows clear until they could at least see the vaguest suggestion of a few stars through the thickening storm-clouds. Crowley sat himself down on the crumpled picnic blanket, spread it out just enough to cover the clear area of the floor, and gestured for Aziraphale to hand him the basket he was still clutching. He pulled out his own sandwich as the blond settled himself, took a bite just to give himself something to do, something to think about that wasn’t the close feeling of being in a dark, humid room with Aziraphale. 

_ Stupid idea, should’ve just given up on the whole thing and gone inside _ . But Aziraphale had made him nervous saying they’d never get another chance, so now they were stuck out here until the rain stopped, trapped in this little warm bubble of a garden, surrounded on all sides by greenery, the crowded feeling only intensified by the constant patter of rain against the walls and ceiling of the greenhouse. It was almost enough to make him feel claustrophobic. Almost. 

There was much less space in the greenhouse than there had been on Aziraphale’s expansive lawn, and Crowley found himself sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the blond, their heads tipped back to squint through the rain-washed glass, trying so hard to catch a glimpse of the promised meteor shower. But it was too dark, and the occasional bright flashes of lightning made it difficult to adjust their eyes well enough in the dark to see the tiny pinpricks of light that occasionally slid into view from behind dark grey clouds. 

Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale, planning to make some stupid comment about glass houses, or stars and fate or  _ something _ to ease the situation, when a brilliant strike of lightning, disturbingly close-by, lit up Aziraphale’s face, threw him into stark monochrome shadows, made his white blond curls glow and revealed those big blue eyes barely visible underneath a frown, his mouth downturned. 

Crowley found himself asking, “Aziraphale? What’s wrong?” and wincing at the tenderness he could hear in his own voice. But Aziraphale looked so  _ upset _ , and he had no idea why. It was just a bit of rain. Not like it was the end of the world or anything.

“I just… I wanted this to be…” he made a face, like he had tasted something unpleasant, “well, to be special. I wanted to watch the meteor shower with you because I knew you’d like it so much but now it’s raining and we can’t see anything and it’s all  _ ruined _ .” His lower lip was definitely wobbling, and Crowley needed desperately to stop that train of thought before it careened out of control and either (or both) of them started crying because of a fucking rainstorm. 

He  _ wanted _ to just take a few minutes and process what Aziraphale had said; that he had wanted to do this specifically  _ with Crowley, _ specifically  _ for  _ Crowley, wanted it to be  _ special _ . But he forced himself to shove those thoughts down and focused instead on making Aziraphale not-upset. Maybe if he…

“What do you mean ruined? We’re here aren’t we? We’ve got this little picnic, and we’re warm and dry. Doesn’t seem so ruined to me.” 

Aziraphale huffed. “That’s not what I meant Crowley, and you know it. I just wanted to… to share this with you. You’ve been so...” he trailed off, and Crowley didn’t particularly want to know what he had  _ been _ , because what if this was just Aziraphale pitying him again, what if this wasn’t what he’d hoped it was at  _ all _ , what if Aziraphale was just trying to get  _ rid _ of him— but no, that didn’t make any sense. They were friends. Aziraphale wanted them to be friends. You don’t invite people you don’t like over to your house for picnicking and stargazing.  _ You don’t usually invite “just friends” over for that sort of thing either _ . But he wasn’t going to think about that, was just going to let whatever happened happen, leave it up to Aziraphale. 

“We  _ are _ sharing it, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed, sort-of. “Yeah, sharing a view of nothing in a tiny stupid greenhouse while it pours rain. Not exactly what I had in mind.” 

“Well what  _ did _ you have in mind then?” Crowley asked, a bit exasperated. Wasn’t  _ he _ supposed to be the dramatic one? 

Aziraphale very suddenly leaned over and pressed their mouths together. It could barely be called a kiss, but it definitely wasn’t an accident, and Crowley froze. Aziraphale pulled back and froze too, staring at Crowley like a deer in headlights, and  _ why on Earth should  _ ** _he_ ** _ look like that _ , when Crowley was the one whose entire brain had just gone offline. After staring at each other for a few seconds, Aziraphale cleared his throat and looked away, down towards his hands.

“Sorry, I…” he began, twisting his fingers together in a way that made Crowley’s knuckles ache in sympathy.

Crowley pitched himself forward, silenced the blond with a  _ real _ kiss, sealed their mouths together like he’d been wanting to for  _ weeks _ , and it was terrible and desperate and harder than it should have been, more like a collision than a kiss, but he could not have fucking cared less.

Their teeth clacked together and it  _ hurt _ but that made it feel  _ real _ , and Crowley wouldn’t have traded it for the world. Maybe this was too far or too much or too fast, but Crowley had  _ missed _ this, craved it enough that it felt like it might be written out on his fucking bones. He felt Aziraphale press his tongue to the seam of his lips, begging entry, and Crowley opened his mouth obscenely wide, brought his hands up to pull Aziraphale closer against him, tilting his head until he found the right angle and then relaxing into the kiss, licking against Aziraphale and just letting himself enjoy it. It was intense, frantic, the overwhelming barrage of sensation nearly unfamiliar with how long he had been without. He had spent  _ so _ much time thinking about it, and even with his stock of previous knowledge, his imaginings hadn’t stacked up, weren’t even close to the absolute  _ bliss _ of sharing space with Aziraphale this way, breathing each other’s air, tasting the sharp edge of his own desire pressed back against him. They were finally forced to break apart, heaving breaths like they’d run a marathon. 

“Does this mean you want to be together again, like before?” Crowley asked, quiet and breathless and hopeful, eyes open and staring hard at Aziraphale. 

“If you... If you still wanted—”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He threw his head back and let out a whoop of joy, punching one fist up into the air in victory. He grinned over at Aziraphale, whose look of surprise was quickly melting into a soft, crooked smile. “Is that a yes?” 

“Yes!  _ Fuck _ yes.” Crowley threw himself towards Aziraphale again, hugging him like he wanted to climb right under his ribs and stay awhile, but Aziraphale was hugging him back just as tightly, murmuring against his shoulder, “I’m sorry it took me so long. You were so patient with me and I… I just didn’t know how to deal with this, but you have to know I never… I always … my feelings for you never changed, Crowley.” 

Crowley was busy trying to bury his face into Aziraphale’s neck, sucking in huge gulps of air like the blond was giving off oxygen and Crowley had been rationing his breaths for  _ months _ . It felt so good, so comfortable and  _ right _ , and Crowley was speaking before he could think through his words, joy bubbling over and overflowing out of his mouth before he could censor himself, “No, no, Aziraphale don’t apologize, you don't have to be sorry, I would’ve waited… I dunno, six thousand years? Forever? As long as it took. I won’t leave again, I swear. Never ever. Pinky promise.” He offered up one hand, pinky out. 

Aziraphale’s chest shuddered with a laugh at that, bringing one hand up to link pinkies with him, the other tightening its grip on Crowley’s back, holding them as close together as they could possibly be without pulling Crowley into his lap completely. Which Crowley wouldn’t have objected to, but that seemed like it might be a bit too fast.

They stayed like that until Crowley’s rib— healed but still a bit finicky, especially with all this rain— started to protest at the way his torso was twisted, and he slid back just far enough to ease it, forehead still pressed to Aziraphale’s, eyes closed tight, because if this wasn’t real, if this was some dream, Crowley did not want to wake up, wouldn’t be the one to break the spell. 

Very, very quietly, he heard Aziraphale whisper, “I missed you.” and he couldn’t stop himself from responding in kind, a soft murmur of: “Oh, angel, you’ve  _ no _ idea how much I’ve missed you.” 

“I think I might.” He could hear Aziraphale’s smile in his voice, though when he locked eyes with Crowley, they were sad. “I’m sorry.” 

Crowley kissed him instead of telling him (again) not to apologize. It was warm and soft and  _ good _ and everything he’d ever fucking wanted. He wanted to cry, tried to refocus all his energy into communicating to Aziraphale with just his mouth and hands how fucking  _ much _ he had missed him and how much he never wanted to let go of him again. He wasn’t sure if he was succeeding until Aziraphale made an irritated noise and clambered into his lap, surprising Crowley into tipping backwards onto the picnic blanket, Aziraphale straddling his waist. 

“‘S okay?” the blond asked, flushed and rumpled and  _ glowing _ above Crowley. He’d never seen anything so stunning, sat himself back up and pulled Aziraphale flush against him instead of answering. 

They kissed for a long time, the way they used to, hours at a time spent on Aziraphale’s bed, not an inch between them, until their lips were rubbed raw from friction and they had to pull apart before either of them got too carried away. 

It was a sort of tug-of-war between them, alternatively pulling closer and pushing apart, passing control of the kiss back and forth between them, sharing it. Crowley had nearly forgotten how good it felt to let Aziraphale do as he pleased with him, to let him kiss Crowley however and wherever he wanted, let him fist his hands in Crowley’s shirt and tug him in until they were so close that each breath forced them apart to allow room for their lungs to expand.

It was fucking  _ exquisite _ , and Crowley was fully prepared to ignore the numbness that was creeping up his legs and back from sitting on cold concrete for so long, but then Aziraphale started to pull him backwards, awkwardly tipping them both until the blond was flat on his back and Crowley was lying on top of him, between his spread legs. Feeling Aziraphale’s dick pushing up against him through two pairs of pants was… a  _ lot _ after so long contenting himself with just his hand, and he had to concentrate fully half of his brain on not rutting down against Aziraphale and moaning like a slut. 

Aziraphale seemed to feel much the same way, though he didn’t appear to be making any sort of effort to muffle himself, and was making the most delicious little noises into Crowley’s mouth, murmuring, “Please, Crowley, oh please. I missed you so  _ much _ ,  _ please _ touch me,” and how could Crowley be expected to resist  _ that _ ? 

He lifted himself up from Aziraphale, no longer crushing them together, so that he could get a hand between them and pull at Aziraphale’s pants, struggling to get them open one handed while still kissing the blond furiously. Eventually he was forced to pull away and look down, couldn’t stop his choked groan at seeing them together like this, his own hand wriggling its way into the blond’s trousers, feeling Aziraphale pushing up against him, begging Crowley to get his hands on him. 

He managed to open the unruly garment just enough to pull Aziraphale’s cock out, zipper still a quarter zipped, and it would likely be uncomfortable in about two minutes but honestly they probably weren’t going to last that long anyway. Aziraphale’s hands had taken the opportunity of Crowley’s distraction with the blond’s fussy clothes to get at his jeans, tucked both hands down the back of them and pushed the offending article away until the damn thing got caught around Crowley’s thighs and would go no further, not unless they stopped kissing and separated. Which obviously was not about to fucking happen, not after  _ nine fucking weeks _ of not having this. 

Crowley made a startled noise at the cold press of the teeth of Aziraphale’s zipper against the soft crease of his thigh, but the sound morphed from vague discomfort to a loud exhalation of pleasure as Aziraphale none-to-carefully grabbed at his cock and began to pull at him. Crowley brought his own hand down to where Aziraphale was straining up against him, but the angle was all wrong and he couldn’t get a good grip and set a reasonable pace at the same time. Eventually Aziraphale just batted his hand away and used his other hand, still resting possessively over Crowley’s ass, to pull them closer, until he could hold both of them together in his hand. 

Crowley was helpless to do anything but stare down at Aziraphale, at that precious pink mouth twisted in concentration. His own mouth was open and panting out more apologies, and endearments, pushing his hips down and against the blond and trying really fucking hard not to cry like a bitch at the  _ love _ he could see on Aziraphale’s face. 

“Fuck. Aziraphale, angel. I missed you. Missed this. Us. Oh Christ, don’t s-stop— I’m so sorry I was stupid enough to try and get rid of you. I promise I won’t ever do it aga—”

Aziraphale leaned up and pressed his lips to Crowleys, effectively shutting him up and providing him with a different way to offer his confessions, unspoken, kissed into Aziraphale’s mouth instead. They pulled apart when the need to breathe became too much, and Crowley found himself just  _ staring _ at Aziraphale, trying to convey just with the intensity of his gaze  _ I love you.  _ ** _I love you_ ** _ . I’ll never stop loving you. Can you feel it? Can you feel how  _ ** _fucking _ ** _ much I love you? _

Aziraphale let out a breathy chuckle, flicked his eyes away for a moment in apparent embarrassment. “Crowley, you’re staring.” 

“Yep.” He was trying not to blink, knew he probably looked just a little bit creepy but he didn’t want to miss a single fucking second of this, wanted to burn this image into his retinas until it was the only thing he saw once he closed his eyes. “You are... stunning. Just absolutely fucking incredible, did you know that?” 

Aziraphale blushed, and sped his hand up a bit, made Crowley’s feet scrabble against the picnic blanket for purchase as he tried to lever himself  _ closer _ . 

Aziraphale laughed at his scrambling, slid the hand resting possessively over Crowley’s ass inwards, let just the tips of his fingers slip between his cheeks, and Crowley had been close but not  _ that _ close, but suddenly he was coming all over both of them, couldn’t keep his eyes open, pushed his hips down against Aziraphale and let himself stutter out a loud moan, nearly camouflaged within a convenient roll of thunder. 

Aziraphale released his hold on Crowley once he’d stilled his hips, transferred the full of his grip to himself, starting pulling harder and faster, fist bumping into Crowley’s stomach with every upstroke. He was biting his lip, cheeks flushed dark red, and Crowley couldn’t get himself to do anything but smile dopily down at him, dropping his head to the side to mouth at Aziraphale’s ear, tugging on it with his teeth and smiling when he could hear the punched out breath the blond produced, arching up against Crowley until his hand was trapped between them, and Crowley could  _ feel _ the moment he started to come, could feel his hand tighten and the first hot splash of it against his stomach. 

They slumped back together, Aziraphale’s hand still working lazily over himself until he was satisfied, sighing blissfully and turning his head to kiss Crowley sweetly. “That was perfect.” Crowley couldn’t help but agree. 

They lay there silently a few moments more, just listening to the rain as it fell in sheets against the roof, tangled together, Crowely’s jeans still caught around his knees and Aziraphale’s now-soft dick still hanging out of his trousers. They were sticky and sweaty and the greenhouse was still terribly humid, but neither of them particularly wanted to move. 

“I don’t think we’re going to see the meteor shower.” Aziraphale eventually said, wiping his hands on the picnic blanket below them and then bringing them up to rub up and down Crowley’s back. 

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. Of  _ course _ Aziraphale was still thinking about that damn meteor shower. “I dunno about you, but I couldn’t care less about the meteor shower right now. I’d say this was a  _ roaring _ success of an evening, even with the storm. Maybe even because of it.” 

He could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice when he answered, “Hmm, you might be right about that.” 

Eventually, Aziraphale got uncomfortable with Crowley’s full weight on his chest, and went to push him off sideways. For a second, Crowley panicked and gripped tighter onto him, until Aziraphale let out a laugh and pinched his side, “Come on Crowley. Move over, you’re crushing me.” 

Crowley immediately sat back, hands twisting together and a feeling of panic swelling in his chest.  _ What if Aziraphale changed his mind? What if he doesn’t actually want to be together again? What if _ —

“Why’d you go so far away?” Aziraphale reached out a lazy hand to him, tugged him down until they were lying down side by side, pressed a kiss to his cheek. Crowley let himself relax.  _ Don’t be stupid, Crowley, you waited nine weeks for this, don’t fuck it up now by overreacting to every little thing he does. _

“Mmm… I think I could go for something sweet right about now.” Aziraphale sounded pensive, and immensely satisfied with himself. Crowley might even go so far as to say he sounded  _ smug _ , the bastard. 

“What, that wasn’t  _ sweet  _ enough for you?” Crowley would never have described anything he did as  _ sweet _ , thank you very much, but this was Aziraphale. He would be sweet for Aziraphale. He would be  _ anything _ for Aziraphale. 

The blond smiled, pulled Crowley’s head closer to his own so he could press three quick, sweet kisses to his lips. “Oh don’t worry, you’re plenty sweet. But I want… cake. Or brownies. Dunno.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, because what else could he do with the overwhelming feeling of fondness that rushed through him? Of course Aziraphale wanted dessert. He  _ always  _ wanted dessert. 

“Alright, angel. Whatever you want.” He said it jokingly, but they both knew he really  _ would _ do anything Aziraphale asked. It was only a little bit pathetic, and right now, Crowley didn’t even care. Not now that he had  _ this _ again, and could be as affectionate and mushy as he damn well pleased. 

Once again, they gathered together their tiny picnic, cleaned themselves off as best they could with the gingham blanket (it needed to be washed anyway, the floor of the greenhouse wasn’t exactly  _ clean _ ), and braced themselves to book it across Aziraphale’s lawn through the torrential downpour the storm had become while they were distracted. 

Even just the three minutes it took to get to Aziraphale’s house from the greenhouse was enough for them both to get soaked to the skin, made Crowley look rather like he’d been part of a wet t-shirt contest, and completely changed the color of Aziraphale’s blazer. They were laughing as they stumbled into the nearest kitchen, Crowley pulling off his shirt and letting it fall with a wet smack to the floor. Aziraphale came in after him, picking up the shirt and placing it— along with his own blazer— over the row of tall stools that rested along one wall. 

Aziraphale had informed him once that the house had three separate kitchens, each with its own purpose and attached dining area. They were currently in a huge gleaming granite counter-topped space, three different stoves and an astonishing array of silver knives, pots, and pans covering one entire wall of the space, with at least three appliances that Crowley couldn’t figure out a use for, let alone name. 

Crowley hopped up onto one of the counters, looked around, and let out a low whistle. “You guys running some secret restaurant I don’t know about?”

Aziraphale just tutted at him and started opening cabinets and pulling out things they might need: pans, mixers, measuring cups. They had decided on brownies, and Crowley was fully prepared to be absolutely useless in the process. 

“I didn’t know you liked baking.” Crowley said casually, swinging his legs back and forth, smacking his heels against the cabinet underneath him. 

“I  _ don’t _ particularly like baking, actually.” 

“What? But dessert! You love dessert! Almost every dessert is baked, how could you not like baking?” 

“I like the  _ products _ of baking, but the actual process itself…” he shrugged, walked over to a small wooden door that opened to reveal a deep pantry. He walked inside, and Crowley couldn’t hear him for a moment, but when he re-emerged— arms full of baking ingredients— he was looking at Crowley inquisitively, as though he had asked a question that he expected a response to.

“What?”

“I  _ said _ , just because you like your motorcycle doesn’t make you an expert in motorcycles, does it?” 

“Well, no… But I bet I could be a mechanic if I really wanted to. It can’t be that hard, right?” 

Aziraphale laughed, and gently released his armful of baking goods onto the counter next to Crowley. 

“Budge up, would you?” 

“Nah, I’m good just like this.” He leaned back but found nothing to support himself against, ended up having to sway forward again. 

Aziraphale stuck his tongue out at him, the juvenile expression absolutely  _ adorable _ on his face, and started to push at Crowley’s thigh where it rested on the counter, sliding him down a good foot so he had space to spread out the ingredients. 

“You gonna use a recipe? Or just wing it?” 

“Brownies are very simple, I don’t think I’ll need a recipe.” 

Crowley laughed at that, threw his head back and let his shoulders shake with it. “Oh, I bet you’re gonna regret saying that.” 

He grinned over at the blond, leaned forward to kiss him. He could do that now (again). Aziraphale didn’t let the kiss linger, pulled away and busied himself measuring out ingredients into a large mixing bowl he’d produced from somewhere Crowley hadn’t seen. He watched as Aziraphale mixed the various parts together, took a few deep sniffs and made some appreciative noises at the scent of brownie batter. 

“Smells good.” He said, reaching out a finger and swiping it across the lip of the bowl, catching a bit of the batter on his finger and sticking it into his mouth. “Hmmm…” he frowned contemplatively, “needs more sugar.” 

Aziraphale paused. “Do you really mean that or are you just saying that for something to say?”

“Uhhhh…. I think it really does need more sugar. It’s a bit…” he smacked his lips, “dry.” 

“Hmmm…” Aziraphale tipped more sugar into the bowl, mixed it in. “How about now?” 

Crowley took another sample. “Honestly, it tastes the same. But it’s probably fine, what do I know about brownies anyway?” He stuck his finger into the bowl a third time. “Here, you try it. You’re the food expert anyway.” 

Aziraphale took the finger into his mouth, sucked on it with a pensive look on his face, and Crowley swallowed convulsively.  _ Fuck _ . 

Aziraphale pulled back after a moment, face still folded in concentration. “Hmmm… I think you might be right. More sugar, definitely.” He poured the white crystals directly from the large tub, not even bothering to measure them out this time. Crowley was still focusing on not getting an erection just from Aziraphale sucking his finger in a completely non-sexual way, and only made a vague noise in response. 

Aziraphale tasted the batter, made an approving noise, and poured it out into the brownie pan, shoving the metal rectangle into the closest oven, preheated to the appropriate temperature. Once he’d stowed the brownies away, he tucked himself between Crowley’s open thighs on the counter and tugged him to the edge so they were pressed together. 

“Whatever shall we do while the brownies bake, hm?” His face stretched in a mischievous grin Crowley had missed desperately, wished he got to see more often. 

“I’ve got a couple ideas,” he offered, bringing his hands up around Aziraphale’s ears and pulling him close enough to kiss. 

They pulled apart after a few minutes, and Aziraphale went to check the brownies. Crowley watched him with a stupid, flushed expression on his face. But it didn’t  _ matter _ , because it was just him and Aziraphale, there was no one else here who might call him on it. Or at least, so he thought, until he heard a sharp intake of breath and the sound of groceries hitting the floor. 

He whipped his head towards the sound, was greeted by the sight of Uriel, arms poised as if they still held their bags of groceries. Their expression melted from one of shock to something closer to barely suppressed rage. Crowley felt every muscle in his body tense in response.  _ Not good, not good,  _ ** _not good_ ** **. **

“Crowley.” Uriel said, neither a question nor a greeting, just spitting his name out as if the word itself burned their tongue. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.” 

Crowley grimaced in response, was abruptly  _ very _ aware of his naked chest, his spread-leg position on the counter, flushed face, kiss-swollen lips. Not a good look, for two people who were supposedly  _ just friends _ . 

“Uhhh….” His brain wasn’t quite on-line yet, still buzzing from the press of the blond’s lips against his own. 

Uriel ignored him, turned towards Aziraphale, hands now on their hips. “Aziraphale. You told us that you two weren’t together anymore.”

“Well, now we are.” Aziraphale slammed the oven shut and turned to face Uriel, a thunderous look on his face. _Oh no. _“We _are_ together, and there’s nothing any of you can do about it.” 

_ Please shut up. Please, Aziraphale, just  _ ** _shut up_ ** .  _ I don’t want to lose you like this, so soon after getting you back. Why couldn’t I have you just a little longer? _

Uriel turned back to face Crowley. “I thought I told you to stay away from my brother.” 

“Uh… I—” Crowley was frozen, didn’t know what to do with any part of himself. In his peripheral vision, he saw Aziraphale’s head whip around to face him, that  _ pitying _ look back again, and Crowley wanted to disappear. Aziraphale turned back to Uriel. 

“You didn’t.” He sounded offended. Scandalized.

“I did, and I won’t apologize for it. He’s not good for you Aziraphale. You need to see that. If you keep going down this path, you’ll have to deal with not only the natural consequences of such a misunion,” they made a face, “but also the consequences that your  _ family _ chooses. You wouldn’t want Mom to have to hear about this, would you?” 

“I don't care! Mom loves me, and she’ll love me no matter what. I’m her  _ son _ .” 

“You don’t know that.” Uriel’s voice was cold. 

“Well neither do you! When was the last time you even  _ saw _ Mom?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll do as I please!” Crowley had never seen him so incensed. He was red in the face, was actually  _ shaking _ with rage. “You don’t know anything about me! None of you care about me at  _ all! _ ” 

“Aziraphale.” Uriel’s voice was condescending. “That’s not true, little brother. Come on, now. We just want what’s best for you, and this clearly isn’t it.” They gestured towards Crowley’s bare chest, hands tucked up under his armpits in a pathetic attempt to cover himself.

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Aziraphale was shouting, hands clenched in tight fists at his sides. 

Uriel’s expression abruptly hardened. “Fine. If that’s what you want. Just know that God may be infinitely forgiving, but this family is not. If you don’t make some serious and immediate changes, I won’t be able to stop them, and you already know you’ll be going straight to Hell.” They turned on their heel, leaving their overturned grocery bags on the floor and walking out of the kitchen. 

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed, after Uriel’s retreating back had disappeared from view. “That certainly could have gone better.” He turned towards Crowley with an apologetic, self-deprecating smile that dropped off his face when he found Crowley frozen, the only movement of his whole body the lightning quick motions of his chest as he ineffectively tried to breathe. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” Crowley choked out, but Aziraphale cut him off. 

“You shut up right now and listen to me. Absolutely not. I did not suffer for almost three whole months just for you to back out now that we’ve finally figured this out.” 

“But what if—” Crowley panted, eyes wide and panicked. “What if they kick you out? Or they don’t pay for you to go to college? Or they  _ disown _ you!?”

Aziraphale walked himself right into Crowley’s space, brought his hands up to the sides of Crowley’s head, pulled him forward until their foreheads were touching and Crowley had no choice but to make eye contact with him.

“Then that’s what happens and I’ll deal with it if it does but it  _ won’t _ Crowley, and it’s not worth it to be worrying about it all the time. I’d rather be happy with you than not disappointing my family. It’s not  _ worth it _ , Crowley. And you are. At least… to me. I know you never said it back or anything but I still love you, and I’d much rather be disowned than forced to hide who I am.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Crowley took a few deep breaths along with Aziraphale, hands still gripping the edge of the granite countertop below him. “Okay.” 

“I know you’re scared. We’re  _ both _ scared. But it doesn’t  _ matter _ , Crowley. This is more important than that fear, I just  _ know _ it is.” 

Crowley nodded his head against Aziraphale, managed to calm down his breathing to a normal level. “Okay.” 

The brownies were a bit burnt, and way too sweet, but they ate them all anyway. 

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

It wasn’t until the following Wednesday that Crowley felt like his head had finally rejoined the rest of his body, and he was no longer just vaguely floating through the days, brain foggy with the bliss of getting back together with Aziraphale. They couldn’t pretend nothing had happened, it had been too long for that, but they settled back together so  _ easily _ and Crowley was reminded how  _ good _ it felt to be around the blond, how it made everything else seem more right when they were together. 

And good thing too, because that Wednesday, Aziraphale was a nervous wreck, fidgeting enough that it gave pause to even Crowley. 

“What’s got you all bent out of shape, then?” 

They were sitting cross-legged on the ground in their usual spot, sandwiched between the edge of school property and the far soccer fields, Crowley leaning back against the low cement wall, Aziraphale’s back to the shed that mostly hid them from view.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow above his sunglasses in clear disbelief. 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s acceptance day today. Everyone is getting their letters, and I’m supposed to hear back from Brown today and I just  _ really _ want to get in there, and I can’t stop thinking about it because I know that as soon as I get home the letter will be waiting for me, and my whole family is going to  _ ask _ me about it, and I have no idea what I’ll do if I don’t get in. I don’t  _ want _ to go to Yale, but their letter arrived yesterday and — ” 

“Woah, jeez, slow down angel.”

“I  _ can’t! _ This is my  _ whole future _ on the line here!” 

“Alright, I think that might be just a  _ little bit _ of an exaggeration, Aziraphale.” 

“Well, I’m still freaking out!” 

“Alright, okay, let’s just take a deep breath here and maybe calm down a little, hm?” 

“ _ I can’t! _ ” He ripped up a handful of grass, and then frowned down at his  green-stuffed fist. After a moment, he released the handful and wiped his palms on his pants, nervous energy still rolling off of him in waves.

“Well, do you want me to uh… I dunno… be there?” Crowley offered, unsure what other comforts he could offer the blond. “I can come over? If you want?” He shrugged. 

“Oh, Crowley, would you?”  Aziraphale  reached out a hand to rest on Crowley’s knee, squeezing softly and offering up those big, blue puppy-dog eyes that he  _ knew _ Crowley could never resist.

“ Yeah, sure, angel, it’s  no problem .”

Aziraphale smiled at him in that soft fucking way he had, the way that made Crowley’s knees go weak and filled his head with the thundering pulse of his heart, his whole body practically shouting at the blond _I love you I love you I love you!!_

Aziraphale shifted over so he was sitting next to Crowley instead of across from him. He leaned against him, nudging his arm with a shoulder and leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you.” 

Crowley could  _ feel _ the blush rising to his cheeks, staining them a bright, embarrassing pink. “Don’t mention it.” 

\--- --- ---

They drove — or, well, Crowley drove — his motorcycle to Aziraphale’s house once school let out, Aziraphale once again nearly vibrating with nerves. 

As they walked up past the gate that encircled Aziraphale’s front yard, the blond reached a hand back towards Crowley and twined their fingers together. It seemed Aziraphale had completely given up on hiding from his family , refused to even  _ pretend  _ they weren’t together, and the past few days had come with a dizzying influx of physical affection that Crowley was out of practice with. It was still overwhelming every time Aziraphale reached for him, or smiled softly at him, or leaned forward to kiss him. 

They went straight to his room, and on the floor just in front of his door, there were two envelopes, both unopened, both addressed to Aziraphale. One was from Brown, the other from a  school Crowley had never heard of. Aziraphale’s fingers tightened around his upon seeing it. 

Aziraphale didn’t even bother with the mystery letter, snatching up the one from Brown and pulling Crowley into his room in a rush. He only waited until the door had clicked shut behind them before dropping Crowley’s hand and eagerly tearing at the envelope. 

Crowley watched silently as Aziraphale’s eyes scanned the tri-folded paper, palms sweating in sympathy, and a strange, nervous feeling  twisted through him  that he wasn’t sure what to do with. After a few seconds of agonizing silence, Crowley couldn’t help but ask, “Well?” 

Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley and pulled him into a crushingly tight hug. 

“Did you get in or not?” Crowley would have chided himself for his own impatience, but Aziraphale’s reaction didn’t actually  _ tell _ him anything, and the longer the blond held on to him, the more worried he got. “Aziraphale?” He pushed back slightly, trying to get a good look at Aziraphale’s face, was nearly bowled over with the relief he felt when he saw the  massive, shit-eating grin on the blond’s face. 

“Yes! I got in!” He let out an ecstatic laugh that made Crowley dizzy with  affection , and he felt his face stretch into a matching  grin of sympathetic joy. 

“Hell yeah!  You’re going to Brown! Damn. I’m actually really happy for you .” And he  _ was _ , it was just that now Aziraphale leaving was suddenly  _ real _ , and it was going to happen  _ soon _ , and Crowley suddenly felt as though his insides were being wrung out. What the fuck was he supposed to do when Aziraphale left? He couldn’t stand to live in this shitty town without that familiar fluff of blond hair, that incredibly expressive, soft face. He’d  _ die _ of loneliness if Aziraphale left him.

“Oh, I’m just… I don’t know what to do! I’m so  excited !” Aziraphale was pink-cheeked and looked about ready to burst with happiness. Crowley shook himself out of his maudlin worrying; he’d have time to  dwell on Aziraphale’s somewhat imminent departure later. He’d have time to be pathetic and selfish and sad, but right now this was about Aziraphale, and Crowley would be happy for him. He  _ would _ . 

“I think this is cause for celebration, don’t you?” Crowley put on his best mischievous grin, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

Aziraphale leaned close again, until his nose nearly brushed Crowley’s. “Oh? Did you have something in mind?” 

“Might do, yeah.” He leaned in for a kiss, and Aziraphale dropped the acceptance letter to throw both arms around his neck. 

\--- --- ---

Crowley had a problem. 

That problem was his absolute inability to fucking  _ talk _ about himself, to admit out loud that he loved Aziraphale so much he thought it would kill him sometimes. He’d never even said it aloud to himself, had only ever acknowledged the feeling in his own head, afraid that giving voice to it would be too much, would give it impossibly more power over him than it already had. 

But he had to tell Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was never shy about admitting his feelings for Crowley, who told him he loved him nearly as often as they were together. It was starting to be a bit of an issue that Crowley could never manage to choke out the words himself. Aziraphale  _ said _ it was fine, but Crowley knew it must grate on him, must make him question Crowley’s intentions, his sincerity. And that absolutely could not be allowed. 

If Crowley’s idiotic brain demanded that he only confess his undying love in the perfect circumstance, well then, he would just have to create the perfect circumstance. 

He had it all planned out. He was going to make dinner, and bring flowers, and light fucking  _ candles _ , and it would be fucking perfect. The only problem was Crowley knew there was no way he could make his dump of a home good enough for Aziraphale. Which meant it couldn’t be a surprise, which wasn’t necessarily bad,  _ but _ it also meant that Crowley had to  _ ask _ Aziraphale to let him do all of that. The blond would have to be in on the plan, which ruined the romance a little bit, but Crowley couldn’t just do  _ nothing _ and let them carry on as they were. He had to tell him. 

So, one stunningly perfect Saturday in spring, Crowley decided it was  _ time _ . Aziraphale’s family had gone on yet another fucking boating trip for the weekend.  _ Pretentious bastards _ . Aziraphale was once again excused, not exactly on the best of terms with most of his siblings. 

The days were starting to get longer, and the sun hadn’t quite set by the time Crowley pulled up to Aziraphale’s house, two grocery bags full of ingredients hanging off the handlebars of the bike. He’d spent the whole drive over trying not to think too much about what he was about to do, lest he start freaking out and try to back out of it.  _ For once, it isn’t about you, Crowley. _ This was for Aziraphale, and he wasn’t going to chicken out because of his own shortcomings. 

He nervously fiddled with the shoddy, homemade bouquet he had put together as he waited on the doorstep, hopingAziraphale wouldn’t mind the dearth of big, flashy flowers. He took a deep breath to steady himself, reached up to check his hair was staying where he’d put it, and knocked. Aziraphale opened the door almost immediately, warm smile already in place, dressed up just a bit more than usual, sporting a bright red bowtie that clashed rather terribly with his shirt. Crowley couldn’t possibly have loved him more. 

He thrust the bouquet out between them, felt his face reddening as Aziraphale’s eyes widened in delighted surprise. 

“You got me flowers?” 

“Yeah, well, I was originally gonna buy you some but I didn’t realize they’re so  _ fucking _ expensive, so I just, um, used some of mine instead. Sorry it’s so, uh, green; I don’t have that many flowering plants at home.” He coughed self-consciously. 

“Oh love, it’s  _ perfect _ . I absolutely adore it.  _ Thank _ you.” It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had called him that,  _ love _ , but it still threw Crowley for a loop every time. Aziraphale reached up and cupped his palm over the nape of Crowley’s neck, pulling him in for a sweet kiss. As he ushered Crowley inside, he noticed the grocery bags. 

“Oh, did you buy dinner? What are we having?” he tried to tuck a finger into one of the bags and pull it open enough for him to peek inside, but Crowley whisked the bag away. 

“Nuh-uh angel, it’s a surprise. Sort of. I mean, you’ll have to help me make it but… whatever. Just wait until we get to the kitchen.” He was so fucking  _ nervous _ , worse than he had been on their first real date, but he was absolutely determined to get this  _ perfect _ , so Aziraphale would have to wait. Just a little. 

Once they had reached a kitchen—not the same one they had cooked the brownies in, but a smaller, more homey kind of kitchen, with a sort of small, family dinner table for four set up inside (not that Aziraphale’s family had ever been small enough to use it that way). Crowley dumped the bags out, scattering the ingredients he had purchased over the small wooden work-top next to the oven. 

Aziraphale leaned over his shoulder, humming appreciatively when he recognized the basic ingredients for home-made pizzas. “Ooh, yum!” 

“I got enough so we could each make one, I thought that would be… uhh…” he didn’t know what he thought it would be, but Aziraphale saved him from finishing the sentence with a tight hug from behind and an excited little shoulder wiggle. “Perfect.”  _ Yeah. That sounds about right. _

They split the pre-made dough in half and rolled out their pizzas on the worktop. Crowley tried to spin the dough on his fist like he had seen actual pizza-makers do, and failed miserably, ended up with a stretched out loop of dough around his elbow, his hand having stretched the soft stuff to its limit and then broken through. But it made Aziraphale laugh, so he didn’t care. 

Crowley had no idea what temperature pizzas were supposed to cook at, but he knew fancy places used really hot woodfire stoves, so he should probably set it as high as it would go. Broil was the furthest setting, so he set it there and hoped it was right.

(It wasn’t).

Crowley recklessly poured way too much tomato sauce onto his pizza, claiming “the more the merrier!” and making Aziraphale laugh again. The blond was more cautious with his own pizza, piled it high with mushrooms and peppers and each of the three types of cheese Crowley had brought along. Crowley stuck with the basics, loading his pizza up with enough cheese to match the huge quantity of sauce he had slathered onto the dough. 

They threw them into the oven and sat down at the table. Aziraphale had the brilliant idea to go look for some wine to go with their pizzas, and Crowley tagged along. By the time they returned, a very nice bottle of red in the blond’s hands, it was immediately clear that something had gone very wrong. The entire kitchen smelled like burning food, and Crowley rushed over to the oven, throwing open the door and letting a thick cloud of black smoke billow out into the room. 

“Oh, shit! Fucking– fuck!” 

Crowley’s pizza, too heavy with sauce and cheese, had slumped through the grates of the oven rack and splashed onto the heating element at the bottom, immediately catching fire and curling into blackened crisps. Aziraphale’s pizza looked surprisingly fine, and Crowley took it out, making a face at the mess he’d made of the oven. 

“Sorry, angel, I–” he was cut off by a hideously loud blare of sound, immediately and instinctively clapping his hands over his ears.  _ The fucking smoke alarm. Perfect _ . 

Aziraphale grabbed two hand towels from underneath the sink and tossed one to Crowley, waving his own around like a madman, trying to get the smoke to dissipate enough to make the horrible noise stop. Crowley threw open the tiny window above the sink, and joined Aziraphale in trying to encourage the smoke out of the room.

By the time they managed to get the alarm to shut off, they were both out of breath, and immediately slumped to the floor against the cabinets, laughing and exhausted from their efforts. 

“You know,” Crowley started on a sigh, “I almost burned my house down when I was little. Just like this. Probably should have learned my lesson, huh?”

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Yep.” Crowley replied, popping the p. “I tried to make my mom a surprise birthday cake, but my dad didn’t want to help me, so I had to do it myself. Was too young to get it right and the fucking thing caught fire right there in the oven. I got into  _ so _ much trouble for that one.” He laughed, but it came out wrong, and he wanted to kick himself. 

He looked to the side, caught that fucking pitying look on Aziraphale’s face again, and he couldn’t take it, he just  _ couldn’t _ . Not right now. 

He turned away. “Don't look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” Aziraphale sounded genuinely bewildered, and Crowley’s hands tightened around the crumpled towel he still had clutched in his lap. 

“You know  _ ‘like what _ .’”

“I don’t.”

“Like you… like you  _ pity _ me.” 

“What? That’s not… I don’t pity you, Crowley.” He still sounded confused, forehead creased into a concerned frown.

“Why do you keep making that  _ face _ at me, then?” 

“ _ What _ face?” 

“You  _ know _ what face.” He was angry now, angry that Aziraphale would claim innocence about something that upset him so much. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about Crowley. Really, I don’t.” 

“That face you make every time I do something stupid, or… or tell you stuff about my shitty childhood, or before we were back together and I would ask you for something you weren’t ready to give me.” 

Aziraphale made the face, and Crowley pointed at it. “That fucking face!”

“Crowley, this isn’t… it’s not  _ pity _ Crowley.” 

“Well then what the fuck is it?” 

“I’m… I’m  _ sad _ . You’ve had to suffer so much in life, and it isn’t  _ fair _ . When we weren’t together I wanted to be with you more than anything, hated seeing you hurting because of me, and every time you offered I wanted to say yes but I  _ couldn’t _ . I just… I want you to be happy. I want you to… to experience  _ good _ things. I’ve never pitied you, Crowley. Well,” he laughed, “except maybe when you had the flu, but that was different. You were so out of it, and you kept having those  _ nightmares _ .” He shuddered at the memory.

“But…I– Oh.” Crowley felt abruptly wrong-footed. Now his entire experience of the three months they were apart had been suddenly thrown into a different light, and he had no idea how he was meant to deal with it. 

After a moment, Aziraphale realized that Crowley was a bit stuck in his own head, so he nudged him with an elbow and asked, “So. You wanna try my pizza? See if it survived unscathed?” He smiled, and Crowley smiled back automatically. 

“Yeah, sure, angel.” He could think about this later, when he wasn’t with Aziraphale and could process the fact that the blond had actually wanted him the entire time they’d been broken up.  _ But would knowing that have changed anything, really?  _ He wanted to think that it would have, but it probably would’ve just made everything worse. 

They relocated to the table, and Crowley waited for Aziraphale to cut himself a wide slice of his pizza and take a bite.

“Oh. Umm… It’s good!” 

Crowley laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Aziraphale.” 

“Alright, alright.” he blushed, made a face. “It  _ is _ a bit… smoky.”

Crowley laughed again, and Aziraphale joined in. Once they’d calmed, Crowley looked away, down towards the table, the smile sliding off his face. 

“I’m sorry I ruined it.” 

“What do you mean ruined it?” Aziraphale seemed genuinely confused again. 

“I wanted… I wanted to have this whole date so I could finally…” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted him, expression patient. 

“So I could tell you I… I–”  _ fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck come  _ ** _on_ ** _ , just do it, get it over with! It’s just three fucking words how hard can this possibly be, Crowley? _ Aziraphale was still watching him expectantly. “So I could tell you I love you!” he shouted, could only manage to get it out with a push. 

Aziraphale  _ beamed  _ at him. “Oh. I– me too, Crowley. You know that.” 

“I  _ love _ you.” He couldn’t help repeating it, softer, a statement instead of a shout. “I love you so much I couldn’t even fucking  _ say _ it. So much that I can’t bear it sometimes.” His face was burning, but it was out now, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to fully commit. It had been marinating in his chest for nearly a fucking  _ year _ at this point, and right now Aziraphale was  _ here _ and he was  _ his _ and he just, he just  _ loved _ him so goddamn much.

Aziraphale smiled. “I know that, Crowley. You aren’t actually very subtle. Don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely nice to hear you say it, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t  _ worried _ . I know you love me. I can… well, I can  _ feel _ it. You might not have used the words but you’ve told me you love me so many ways, Crowley. I never doubted you.” He leaned forward across the table, reached a hand out to Crowley’s chest, laid it over where his heart beat out a steady rhythm under that soft palm. ( _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ .) 

“I... But I never… I should have…” 

Aziraphale’s other hand grabbed Crowley’s where it rested on the table between them, lifted it to his lips and pressed the softest of kisses to his knuckles. “It’s alright. You’ve said it now, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I– yes. I love you.” 

And maybe Aziraphale understood. Maybe he could feel how Crowley’s entire fucking being cried out for his, tried to stretch itself across whatever infinite chasm of space existed between their atoms. Maybe he felt it too, that magnetic tug like gravity, like they were the center of each other’s universes. 

To be so  _ known _ …

It was a revelation. It was agony, mortifying, impossible, ecstatic. It was a lot.

“But then… what did you think this was all about?” Crowley huffed a disbelieving laugh, gestured broadly to the kitchen, the house, this date. 

“Well…” Aziraphale started, and why did he suddenly look self-conscious? “I thought this date was actually about uh… well. I thought we might finally, um, try… you know… with, with you on top, you... I thought you might…”

“Thought I might what?” 

“I thought you might… fuck me,” he said, and primly cleared his throat. “You did say you wanted to make it perfect for me, and this is pretty close to perfect if you ask me.”

“I didn’t… I mean, that wasn’t... but we can,  _ definitely _ …” he made a rude gesture. 

Aziraphale tutted, and Crowley laughed again, but quickly sobered. “You sure about this, angel? ‘Cuz I am, but...” 

“Crowley. I’m sure.” He started tugging Crowley out of the kitchen by his shirt-front, and really, that was weird, he could have sworn Aziraphale’s room was farther away than that, but he wasn’t going to complain, not with Aziraphale moving with such  _ purpose _ .  _ Oh, he’s thought about this. _

Aziraphale slammed the door to his room open with such force that it bounced off the wall with an echoing bang. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at the eagerness, teasing the blond with a soft smirk on his face. “Impatient, are we?” 

Aziraphale frowned at him without any heat. “Don't make fun of me, Crowley. I’ve wanted you to have me for  _ months _ . I don't want to wait any more than I absolutely have to.” 

Crowley could immediately feel the flush gathering in his cheeks, ears suddenly hot. “Y- b- I… fair enough.” 

Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss, and it wasn’t at all what Crowley was expecting. It wasn’t urgent and hard and messy, wasn’t the kind of kiss that would shut him up completely. It was soft, and so fucking  _ tender _ , so full of  _ I love you, I want you _ , that it made his throat tighten, made him curl his hands into fists in Aziraphale’s jacket, heedless of the wrinkles he was creasing into the expensive fabric.  _ He  _ ** _loves_ ** _ me _ . 

And now Crowley had admitted his own love for Aziraphale, could take comfort in the fact that they both  _ knew _ now, had both made it as clear as it was possible to make something so complicated and messy as love. They were in this together. On their own side. And if it was just the two of them against the rest of the universe, Crowley was sure they’d figure something out.

“You know,” Crowley mumbled between kisses, “I was gonna do the whole thing, candles and, I dunno, flowers and–” 

“You  _ did  _ bring flowers,” Aziraphale reminded him, “and I wouldn't want it any other way than this.” He started pushing Crowley deeper into the room, maneuvering them around the various pieces of furniture and pulling at his own clothes as they went. He’d managed to remove the bow tie and jacket, and had his shirt half-way unbuttoned by the time they reached his bed. 

Just before the backs of his thighs met the edge of the mattress, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and twisted them around, nudged the blond backwards. He landed with a huff of laughter, hands still busy unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, quickly sliding down to his belt and undoing it. Crowley pulled back slightly, grabbed Aziraphale by the heels so he could peel off his socks, tugging at the hems of his trousers until the blond lifted his hips and kicked his feet to help get them off. Crowley tossed them blindly over his shoulder once they’d come free, and pitched himself forward, his weight crushing another laugh out of Aziraphale. They kissed, Aziraphale’s hands coming up to slide under the back of Crowley’s shirt and tug it upwards, managed to ruck it up to his armpits before they were forced to pull apart long enough for Crowley to pull the shirt off over his head, mussing his hair terribly and not minding very much at all. He leaned back in to continue kissing, smoothing his palms up along the length of those exquisite, deliciously thick thighs, pulling them up around his hips and pressing in as close as he could get. 

They stayed like that for a bit, just kissing slowly, enjoying each other. It was familiar and perfect and he just had to say it again, was mumbling before he could think to stop. “I–”  _ kiss _ “love–”  _ kiss _ “you.” He couldn’t help it, and it was  _ embarrassing _ , so he pulled back for a moment to grimace at himself, but when he looked back down, Aziraphale was just smiling at him, lips swollen and flushed brightly pink, eyes half-lidded and hair fluffed past even its usual dandelion volume. 

It made Crowley smile as well, because any joy Aziraphale felt may as well have been his own, as ridiculously empathetic as he was towards this beautiful boy he  _ loved _ . He leaned in for another not-so-quick kiss, then pulled back to standing, dropping his chin down so he could see what his hands were doing as they grappled with the stupid stuck zipper of his jeans. Aziraphale watched him struggle for a moment and then sat up to help, but he overestimated the distance, and ended up smacking his forehead against the bridge of Crowley’s nose, hard enough to make his eyes water. They both rocked backwards, Crowley’s hands abandoning the zipper and rushing up to clutch at his face. “Ow! What—” He drew one hand away, rolling his eyes when his fingers came back red and wet. “Oh  _ great _ ,” he said sarcastically, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow by wiping his nose on the side of his hand. 

“Oh no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—” Aziraphale was flustered, palms open towards Crowley like he wanted to help but didn’t know what to do. 

Crowley just flapped one hand at him to tell him to shut up, the other cupped under his nose to catch the slow trickle of blood. He tipped his head back a bit. 

“Have you got a…” he made another vague gesture with his free hand. 

Aziraphale lurched sideways, towards the head of the bed, and grabbed a handful of tissues from atop the stack of books that made up his bedside table. 

It wasn’t all that much blood, but Aziraphale still immediately started fussing over him, pulling his hand away and replacing it with the wad of tissues, stopping the sluggish flow with the gentlest of pressure against the sore bridge of Crowley’s nose. “Oh, I’m so sorry, love, I just wasn’t thinking—” 

“‘S fine angel, really. ‘S not broken or anything, don't worry.”

They stayed as they were for the four minutes it took for Crowley’s nose to stop bleeding, Aziraphale clad only in his underwear and Crowley standing between his knees, jeans still half-zipped. Every minute or so, Aziraphale would offer up more apologies that Crowley brushed aside. Once the slow drip had completely halted, Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, turned slightly away and flicked his eyes up to meet Aziraphale’s, darting them away immediately once he’d made contact. 

“So, uh. Did you still want to…?” He asked, ready to step back and reassemble himself if the mood was completely broken.

“ _ Yes _ .” There was not a hint of hesitation in Aziraphale’s voice. 

They both leaned forward, carefully this time, and went back to kissing, sweet sipping kisses, slow like they had all the time in the world. Eventually, they tipped back to horizontal, Aziraphale happily trapping Crowley between his thighs, greedily grabbing at the back pockets of the jeans he still hadn’t managed to get off. 

“Did you want to…” Crowley asked, muffled between kisses, “Or did you want me to…?” 

“Hm?” Aziraphale was thoroughly distracted, and sounded it. 

“You know, uh,” Crowley reached a hand between them, pressed the pads of two fingers suggestively between Aziraphale’s cheeks, over his underwear. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” he sounded breathless already, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders, lifting his chest as though desperate to crush them closer together, despite the fact that they were already pressed together from chest to hips, not a breath of space separating them. “You can… that is, I’d like it if you would—” He cut himself off with a kiss, wiggling down against Crowley’s fingers in a rather emphatic way. 

“Okay, yeah okay. We can… yeah.” He leaned back, reluctantly pulled his hand away to tug off his unruly jeans, fumbling uselessly as Aziraphale whined at the loss of Crowley’s fingers and body against him. He stripped himself and then helped Aziraphale out of his boxers. There was some awkward shifting as they both tried to figure out the best way to do this, ended up settling themselves with Aziraphale’s head up on the pillows, and Crowley kneeling close between his thighs, a mirror of the first time they’d done this, though now their positions were reversed.

Crowley dug through the tiny chest of drawers Airaphale kept his lube in, slicked up his fingers, and situated himself between Aziraphale’s knees. He reached out a cautious, slow hand, and began to rub softly over Aziraphale’s hole. 

“Have you ever… I mean obviously not uh, with someone, but maybe you...?”

Aziraphale blushed, bit his lip. “Just, um, just one finger, and only a few times.” 

Crowley could  _ feel _ his face flood with heat, licked his lips automatically, had to shake his head a bit to clear it of the consuming mental image of Aziraphale on this very bed, reaching cautiously behind himself to explore this so-forbidden act. He felt his cock twitch at the thought.

He pressed cautiously into Aziraphale, sliding just a single finger in to the first knuckle, then pausing and looking up at Aziraphale’s face, checking for discomfort. He pushed his finger in deeper, rapt as the blond’s jaw dropped around a moan and he threw his head back against the mound of pillows. 

“This okay?”

“It’s… how is it so,  _ oh _ ... _ different _ from when I tried it?” Crowley wanted to pass out, could  _ feel _ all the blood in his body rush between his legs. He thrust his finger in and out a few times, just testing, getting Aziraphale used to the feeling, before carefully introducing a second. Aziraphale made such a  _ noise _ at the addition that Crowley had to harshly grip the base of his own dick with his free hand to keep himself from coming immediately. 

“How is it?” Crowley asked, barely kept his voice from shaking.

Aziraphale made a face, shifted his shoulders a bit against the sheets. “It’s… weird.”

“Good weird or bad weird? Do you want me to stop?” He started to pull out his fingers, not waiting for a response. 

“No, wait!” Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, stilled his hand and looked at him very seriously. “It’s just weird. Not good weird  _ or _ bad weird yet, but I don’t want you to stop.” Crowley swallowed. 

“Okay, angel. Sure. Slow?”

The blond nodded, released Crowley’s wrist and lay back down, arms at his sides. After a moment, he seemed to reconsider, and reached for the hand Crowley didn’t currently have buried knuckle deep inside him and linked their fingers together, squeezing it as though to comfort them both. Crowley smiled up at him. 

“I love you.” He’d never get used to saying it, even if he said it every day for the rest of his life. And he would, he’d say it until the words wore right out, until they weren’t enough to support the weight of his feelings. And then he’d come up with something else, because he would never be able to stop telling Aziraphale how he felt about him, and he knew that now. Knew it was the reason he’d struggled so much to admit his feelings in the first place. Saying them out-loud made them real, made them inescapable, and Crowley had been worried they’d crush him with how much he fucking  _ meant them _ , but now that he’d done it he felt…  _ lighter _ , like he’d thrown out a tether and Aziraphale had caught it. Like he’d expected to fall and found himself… well,  _ flying _ instead. 

He wished there were stronger words than “I love you”—knew there were a million ways to say it—but he wanted the  _ right _ way, the  _ perfect _ way. Something that could never be misconstrued, never be taken from him. From  _ them _ .  _ Fuck _ . 

Aziraphale smiled back at him, made a go-ahead sort of motion, and Crowley refocused his attention between the blond’s legs. He kept his movements slow and careful, sweeping his fingers within the tight grip of Aziraphale’s body, searching for his prostate, that elusive bundle of nerves that would hopefully assure the blond that this was definitely good weird. Aziraphale didn’t seem all that uncomfortable any more though, was in fact helplessly tilting his hips to fuck himself down onto Crowley’s fingers.

Crowley knew when he’d found it, Aziraphale’s entire body pulling tight, hand coming up to clutch at Crowley’s forearm, a bright, breathless “ _ Oh! _ ” escaping him. His other hand released its grip around Crowley’s fingers, flew up to clutch at the pillows next to his head. “Oh that’s…” he started thrusting against Crowley’s hand more urgently, short sharp rolls that made Crowley groan aloud as though he was the one whose prostate was receiving such careful, relentless attention. “That’s…” Aziraphale sentence trailed off into a long, hitching moan, punctuated with each thrust of his hips. 

“More, I want… oh  _ yes _ , just there.” He sounded almost…  _ bossy _ , and Crowley had never been more aroused, wanted nothing so badly as he wanted Aziraphale to keep doing  _ that _ . He leaned down over the blond’s constantly shifting hips, carefully sucked just the crown of his dick into his mouth, tongued at it teasingly, the way he knew made Aziraphale grab at his hair and  _ shout _ with pleasure. He was not disappointed. 

He kept his mouth over Aziraphale, carefully started edging in a third finger, Aziraphale panting and begging for it all the while. Once he’d sunk all three in as far as they could go, he released Aziraphale’s dick from his mouth, watched the spit-slick length of it sway upwards towards his belly. He slowed his hand, fucking Aziraphale as deep and hard as he could with just his fingers, pressing fleeting kisses over any part of him he could reach, mumbling his adoration into the soft expanse of skin spread out below him.

Aziraphale had both hands fisted in the sheets, was begging Crowley to fucking— “get  _ on _ with it, I’m ready, I’m ready, ohh—  _ please _ , Crowley just  _ plea _ — _ ohhh. _ ” Crowley twisted his fingers cruelly, Aziraphale’s loud exhalations stoking the bright flame of desire that had ignited in his gut. 

“How did you want to...” He had to ask, though he had no idea if Aziraphale would actually be able to offer him any coherent answer. 

“I don’t care, I don’t  _ care, _ just get  _ in _ me already!” So no, not capable of coherency. That was fine. Crowley was honestly a bit proud of himself for reducing Aziraphale to this puddle of desire, and with just his fingers. 

“Oh, I love you,” he muffled himself against Aziraphale’s knee with minimal success, but the blond didn’t seem to mind his constant confessions, each one punching a whine out of him and accelerating the rhythm his hips had set. Crowley pulled away from his knee with a tiny kiss, stilled his fingers for a moment. “It might be easier if you...” He made a “turn-over” motion with his free hand. 

“No, no I want to see you.” Oh.  _ Fuck.  _ How was he possibly meant to hold all this… this fucking  _ feeling _ ? Surely his body couldn’t possibly contain it all. 

“Maybe if we… you can ride me? That way you can control the pace, or—” but Aziraphale was already sitting up, shoving at Crowley to get him to swap places.

Aziraphale was flushed clear down to his chest by the time he managed to lower himself over Crowley, sinking down oh-so-slowly, biting his lip, and Crowley nearly had an out-of-body experience, just  _ looking _ at Aziraphale, taking in all of him: the flush inching across his body, the fleshy double roll of his stomach, the soft bend of his knees, his milk-pale thighs bent open, the pink curve of his cock swaying forward, ruddy and thick. Suddenly Crowley found himself wishing he could fold himself in half enough to kiss it, nearly started curling forwards to at least  _ try _ , when Aziraphale shifted, pushed his hips forward and then back, testing out the new sensation. 

“H—” Crowley tried to speak, only managed to create some terrible rasping sound in his throat. He swallowed, tried again, hands coming up to hold Aziraphale still so he could fucking  _ think _ for a goddamn second. “How’s it feel?” he managed to rasp out. 

“Uhm, i-it’s…” the blond dropped his chin to his chest, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled forcefully. “It’s a lot. I’m so... so  _ full _ .” Crowley couldn’t control the hitch of his hips upon hearing that, couldn’t help fucking up into the incredible, terrible,  _ perfect _ goddamn  _ angel _ sitting on his cock. 

“Did you want to…” Crowley started trying to use his grip on the blond’s hips to pull him up, off, but Aziraphale just grabbed his wrists, stilled them and pinned Crowley with a blazing look.

“ _ No _ .” He growled, emphatically. 

Slowly, Aziraphale started moving with more purpose, still experimentally at first, just a little bit in and out, and as his confidence built, he dropped himself back down harder and  _ harder _ with each thrust. 

“Jesus, Oh  _ fuck _ , I love you.”  _ Again _ , and now it was absolutely  _ mortifying _ how much he was saying it, like once he’d started, the dam had been opened, and he just couldn’t stop the immense outpouring of his love. It just… He just felt it  _ so much _ , and Aziraphale  _ must _ know, he just  _ had _ to. But still...

“Sorry I keep— I just... I can’t stop  _ saying _ it. I waited  _ so _ long to tell you, angel, you’ve no idea, I’ve loved you since you shook my fucking hand at community service, and I never stopped, you have to know I—” Aziraphale leaned down and caught him in a tiny kiss, the change of angle too distracting for more than a  _ shut up I understand you, you idiot _ kind of kiss.

“You don’t... you don’t have to stop. It’s… I like hearing you say it. It’s, oh,  _ oh _ —it’s good.” 

“Angel. I— Aziraphale.  _ Fuck _ I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s  _ terrible _ . I love you more than anything, more than the fucking  _ stars _ , more than my  _ life _ . I’ve never loved  _ anything _ the way I love you.”

“I know Crowley, I know, I know, I love you too, I do.” He pressed their foreheads together, taking a moment to adjust before slowly rolling his hips back, quickly picking up speed, their foreheads parting as he began to move with vigor, trying to keep eye contact despite the aroused, half-lidded state of his eyelids, mouth slack with pleasure, brow furrowed in concentration as he fucked himself back onto Crowley’s cock.

And Crowley was  _ really _ glad no one was home, because Aziraphale had started making some  _ very _ excellent sounds, and he was not being quiet about it  _ at all _ . It was so impossibly good, he never wanted it to end. But the pitch of Aziraphale’s voice was rising, and he could feel the swelling tide of orgasm in his own gut. 

He was determined to make Aziraphale come first, but the blond currently had complete control over their pace, and Crowley was going to lose his mind if he kept going the way he’d settled into. 

He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hips, trying to slow him enough to get his attention. The blond whined at the resistance, couldn’t seem to still himself completely, still grinding himself down against Crowley like he could possibly get him in  _ deeper _ . 

“Aziraphale, can we— I want to…” he pushed at one side of Aziraphale’s hips, trying to communicate that he wanted them to roll over, too breathless and overwhelmed to explain himself more than that. 

“What? No…” Aziraphale whined, fighting Crowley’s hands in order to keep fucking him, clearly thinking Crowley just wanted him to get off completely, which was  _ definitely _ not correct. 

“I don’t mean  _ stop _ , angel,  _ fuck _ no. I just wanna swap. You’ve been doing all the work, let me—” he flexed his hips up into Aziraphale in explanation, was gratified when the blond relaxed and started to lift himself off and tip sideways, making a face at the feeling of Crowley’s cock slipping wetly out of him. 

Crowley followed as quickly as he could, gently urging Aziraphale onto his back and then yanking the blond into his lap, guiding himself back in and closing his eyes when Aziraphale  _ sighed _ in appreciation.  _ Fuck _ , it was so good. 

Crowley decided he’d had enough of Aziraphale’s short rolling thrusts, and started fucking him  _ hard _ , pulling nearly all the way back out before shoving inside, over and over, listening to the catch in Aziraphale’s breath with each smack of their flesh together and trying not to come too quickly. Aziraphale was getting close, Crowley could see it, face screwed up tight and making breathless high pitched noises that he didn’t seem to be completely in control of.

Crowley reached one hand across the blond’s waist, fisting his cock hard and fast and letting himself fuck into Aziraphale as hard as he could manage. The blond had one hand gripping the sheets next to his head, tight enough that Crowley was worried he might actually tear the fabric, but he was  _ wailing _ , so clearly lost to the sensation, and Crowley didn’t want to make him stop feeling it for even a  _ second _ . His other hand reached down for a weak grip of Crowley’s ass, pulling him in like he still wanted  _ more _ , and it was so much,  _ way  _ too much, but Crowley was determined not to come yet because this was about Aziraphale, and he could see that the blond was  _ so close _ . 

And seeing Aziraphale come like that, oh it was worth it. It was fucking… _transcendent_. It moved through him in such defined, rolling waves that Crowley nearly didn’t recognize it for what it was until Aziraphale’s entire body pulled tight, and he pushed his head back until he was a straight line from chest to chin, making a sound like he was _dying_, long and low and loud. It was enough to make Crowley flex his hips forward just a bit harder, anything to draw that sound out for as long as possible. 

Once the last shivers of orgasm had run through him, Aziraphale went boneless, cheeks flushed bright red, a few curls sticking to his damp forehead. Crowley went to pull out, mindful of oversensitivity, but Aziraphale resisted with the hand still hooked around his hip, smiled drunkenly up at him. 

“Don’... I wan’ you to… jus’ come ‘nside.” Which was honestly just  _ unfair _ , and Crowley couldn’t stop himself from coming immediately, toes curling as he fucked as far as he could into the blond, letting himself moan as loud as he wanted to, and while he curled himself over Aziraphale, panting and grinding his hips through the last of it, he realized the bastard was fucking  _ purring _ , still had a grip on Crowley’s ass and was encouraging him forward.

Crowley slumped over Aziraphale when he’d wrung the last shiver of sensation from both of them, Aziraphale’s come-striped belly sticking against his skin rather unpleasantly, but his whole body was tingling and he needed at  _ least _ a week to recover from that. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind Crowley’s weight over him, was kissing any part of Crowley’s face and neck that he could reach. Eventually, Crowley softened, felt himself slip out of Aziraphale and took that as his cue to roll off. He flopped over to his back and blew a breath out at the ceiling, still reeling. 

“Well that was…” 

“Why didn’t we do that sooner?” 

Crowley laughed, tucking Aziraphale up under his arm. He let himself nose into those fluffy blond curls, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I love you,” he murmured, felt Aziraphale’s fingers trace a heart over his chest, smiled to himself. Maybe it really would all work out. Maybe they got to have this. 

And the thing was, for once, he wasn’t worried about it. It felt right, felt safe, felt real. And that was good enough for him. 

  
  



	15. Epilogue

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out as he pushed open the door to their tiny student-housing apartment. His entire body was tipped sideways by his overstuffed book-bag, which typically contained an impossible stack of slightly crumpled papers, just one single pen that never seemed to run out of ink, at  _ least _ one textbook, and a minimum of two other novels “just in case.” Crowley had no idea how the blond possibly had any time for non-school reading, considering how often he went to bed and left Aziraphale out in the living room, a textbook propped on his lap and the coffee table in front of the couch overflowing with notes and scraps of paper. 

Crowley could hear Aziraphale locking the door behind him, dropping his book-bag with a sigh, and offering a hello to the little stand of plants that Crowley had installed just inside. He hummed to himself as he toed off his shoes, not visible down the narrow hallway that led to their front door, but so predictable in his habits. It was all very domestic, and Crowley smiled to himself, sprawled out on the couch with a tiny lit joint in hand, eyes barely slitted open, trying to relax after spending six straight hours bent over various cars, still only halfway done with his apprenticeship at the local car repair joint. 

Aziraphale appeared in the living room, dragging his bag by the strap behind him, and made a face at the smell that had filled the room. “Crowley… at least open a window if you’re going to smoke, it stinks in here.” 

“Sssorry angel,” Crowley slurred from his near-liquid state on the couch, eyes low and hungry. 

“I’m guessing you haven’t made dinner?” Aziraphale sighed. 

“I just got home, I was about to.” 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him in disbelief. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it now. Look, I’m going.” Crowley groaned, went to sit up from the couch and was stopped by the crick in his neck making itself  _ very _ apparent. “Ugh, ow.” He brought a hand up to rub over his nape. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale walked over to the couch, placed his own hand over Crowley’s, the irritation in his voice immediately replaced with gentle concern. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine angel. Just… tired. ‘S not so easy trying to figure out what’s wrong with a car when you can barely prop the hood open.” He shrugged, then winced at the twinge it caused. 

“I’ll do dinner then, you just rest.” He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “And put that out if you aren’t going to share.” 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” Crowley smiled crookedly, offered up the joint to Aziraphale. 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“Why not? It’s a Friday.”

“And I still have work to do. Class isn’t just for  _ fun _ , you know. I have an exam on Monday, and I promised Naomi I would help her with her costume this weekend, so I have to study tonight.” 

“You’re no fun. What class is the exam even for? I feel like you have an exam every week.” Crowley whined, petulant. 

“It’s for sociology.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. 

“The very same sociology course that you got a 98% on your last exam in?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale huffed, “And it would have been 100% if you hadn’t  _ distracted _ me!” 

Crowley opened his mouth to retort, but got a bit lost in remembering that particular “distraction.” He’d crawled right up to where Aziraphale had been reading his textbook and set to work on sucking his cock until Aziraphale had put the book aside and dug fingers into his hair.  _ Delicious _ . 

However, this current Aziraphale was scowling at him half-heartedly. “And you won’t be doing it again.”

“Aww… c’mon angel, live a little.” 

Aziraphale scowled at him and snatched the joint from his fingers, took a quick puff and offered it back. “I’m going to make pasta. Any objections?”

“Not a one.” Crowley announced, leaning back into the couch with a sigh, letting his eyes drift closed. 

“Incorrigible.” he heard Aziraphale mutter as he made his way towards their little kitchenette.

Crowley listened to the sounds of Aziraphale puttering around for a few moments, putting on a pot to boil and muttering to himself, probably trying to read at the same time as he cooked. The mental image made warmth bloom in his chest, expanding until he couldn’t take it anymore and got up from the couch to drape himself over Aziraphale’s back where he was standing in front of the stove, trying to decide between two different types of pasta. 

“What do you think, conchiglie or fusilli today?”

“Hmm.” Crowley answered noncommittally, burying his nose in the back of Aziraphale’s neck, nosing at the soft blond curls. He could practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

“Alright, conchiglie it is.” 

Crowley made another noncommittal noise, murmured a soft, “love you” against Aziraphale’s nape. He felt the blond relax against him, shoulders easing downwards, and he continued to press tiny kisses to the back of his head, in his hair, on his neck, just around the collar of his shirt. With each tiny kiss he repeated himself, a rhythm like a heart-beat:  _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . 

And yeah, maybe they’d been together for almost an entire year now, literally lived in the same apartment and slept in the same bed every night, and Crowley should have settled into it, and he  _ had _ . But sometimes the intensity of his feelings still took him by surprise, still overwhelmed him until he couldn’t do anything but confess, seeking absolution in Aziraphale’s soft admissions of the same. And it was starting to not feel so dangerous anymore, was starting to feel like a gift he could give Aziraphale and receive in kind. Reciprocity.  _ Bliss _ . 

He could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice when he replied, “I love you too, Crowley. But I’m trying to make dinner and you leaning on me is making it rather difficult for me to move.” 

“What d’you need? I’ll get it.” 

Aziraphale reached back with one hand, caught Crowley’s left arm by the wrist where it was dangling limply at his side, brought it up and kissed the backs of his knuckles. “I’ve got it, love. Why don’t you just go and sit down, hm? I’ll be done in a second.” 

Crowley groaned but slithered away from Aziraphale, back towards the couch. “Jus’ trying to help.” 

“I appreciate it, Crowley, but you’re clearly exhausted.” 

Crowley had truly never believed he’d have it so good, never thought he’d be allowed to see the love of his fucking life every single day, would get to spend every night curled up close together. He hadn’t even let himself  _ think _ about it until Aziraphale had shoved himself right into Crowley’s life. He’d never felt luckier, made sure to mentally thank  _ someone _ every day. Mostly Aziraphale, but sometimes whichever administrator had decided six weeks of community service was an appropriate punishment for his behaviour, or that waitress from the  _ Alpha Centauri Diner _ . Her especially. He would have sent her something, a thank you card at the very least, but he didn’t remember her name, wasn’t even sure she had been wearing a name tag. 

“Mmm.” He crashed down onto the couch and closed his eyes. He’d just rest awhile. Aziraphale would be there to wake him. 

If nothing else, that was something he could believe in. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We fucking did it folks. My first novel-length fanfic. 
> 
> I love these stupid fuckers too much to stop now, so I'm going to make this part of a series! 
> 
> Thank you for making it this far, and for every lovely comment I forgot to respond to. Y'all are the best, and I owe you my life.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Things We're Forced To Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690095) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)


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